Eat or Be Eaten
by ImpalaAngel13
Summary: It's the 32nd Hunger Games, and the Gamemakers have promised a grisly masterpiece for Panem to enjoy. The stakes rise as time wears on...who will survive the transformation of a tribute into a bloodthirsty killer?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! I'm ImpalaAngel13, and I'm working on creating my own Hunger Games fic. This is my first one, so don't blame me if I do this wrong! All you need to do is fill out this wonderful little form and send it to me via review, and I'll consider you**

**This is the 32 Hunger Games, and Panem (well, the Capitol) is excited for what should be an exciting affair. The arena promises to be deadly with all new twists...and garish muttations. 24 tributes must brave the arena and only one may make it out alive.**

Name:

Age:

Gender:

District (13 is not an option):

Appearance:

Personality:

Family:

Friends:

Token:

Reaped or Volunteered?:

If reaped, reaction:

If volunteered, why?

Arena strategy:

Alliance?:

Career?

Weapon(s):

Strengths:

Weaknesses:

Training score:

Interview angle:

Bloodbath? Will they fight, die, or just run away?:

Preferred death:

Reaping outfit:

Chariot ride outfit:

Interview outfit:

Romance?:

Anything else?

**In the Anything Else box, please help out by putting in extra things about your tribute, stylists, mentors, escorts, arena, and muttations. Thanks so much and may the odds be ever in your favor!**


	2. Tributes

I'm done! The SYOT is closed; even I have submitted my own tribute. The reapings will take place, and then the Capitol, and then the Games will begin. I have an arena already set up, but I'm always open to Gamemaker traps and mutt ideas. So review, review, review! A NOTE TO cynicz, I WAS NOT ABLE TO PUT GUIRE INTO 11, SO I PUT HIM IN 6. IS THAT OKAY?

**District 1 Male: **Colakis Maphen- **The Wolf Huntress**  
><strong>District 1 Female: <strong>Zella Dempsey- **GlitterBabe**

**District 2 Male: **Trevor Gilman**- dramioneforinfinity  
><strong>**District 2 Female: **Mallory Jewel- **Catnip-WiseGirl1007**

**District 3 Male: **Erik Wells**- PeenissandClato  
><strong>**District 3 Female: **Karin Litt- **iliketacos1**

**District 4 Male: **David J. Martin Wilson- **PeenissandClato**  
><strong>District 4 Female: <strong>Scout Rosewell- **DarkHairedBeauty6000**

**District 5 Male: **Kylar Okray**- Phlanx  
><strong>**District 5 Female: **Xienna Rider- **alwaysbeingme98**

**District 6 Male: **Guire Davids**- cynicz  
><strong>**District 6 Female: **Haley Francis Donner- **fclovesharrypotter**

**District 7 Male: **James Wood- **Catnip-WiseGirl1007  
><strong>**District 7 Female: **Sage Smith- **WondersBornHere**

**District 8 Male: **Ranen Hollock**- My tribute!  
><strong>**District 8 Female: **Rosita Lockhart- **d****ramioneforinfinity**

**District 9 Male: **Zale Tatum**- KiraraGoesMeow  
><strong>**District 9 Female: **Jaylin Brooke Adams- **Yukiko 18**

**District 10 Male: **Fergus McKlain**- Future Starkid Member  
><strong>**District 10 Female: **Doe Jhonson- **Rory Longbottom**

**District 11 Male: **Tarragon Tempest****- Tig379 **  
><strong>**District 11 Female: **Kia Beckford- **BasketCase89**

**District 12 Male: **Aramind Fallius**- SilverPhoenixFire2000  
><strong>**District 12 Female: **Allegra Mariel- **thehungergamesfan7**

That's it for now! I'm also going to need to kill some of the tributes off in the bloodbath, or else it wouldn't exactly be a bloodbath. Just saying. So don't sue me for killing your tribute.

Note: Reviewing will probaby help your tribute in the long run. It's not exactly sponsoring, but it'll help their chances of survival. Just make sure to leave the name of your tribute(s) in the review when you do. And you don't have to have a tribute in the story to help them! Just review with suggestions and comments!


	3. District 1 Reapings

**This is it. District 1 is happening, right now. I know that I'm writing already, but I NEED TRIBUTES! Please keep submitting, guys!**

* * *

><p><strong>Zella Dempsey, 18. District 1<strong>

"There." My mother straightens my emerald dress of fine cotton and tucks a stray hair back into my pristinely assembled waterfall braid, obsessively checking the knot to make sure that it's good and tight. I shrug her off.

"It's fine, Mother," I huff, applying a pale pink gloss to my lips. Being one of the wealthiest families in District 1, we're able to afford such luxuries. "I just want to get to the reapings."

I watch her in the mirror as she raises her plucked brown eyebrows. "Excited? Zella, this is your last chance at the Hunger Games. There's little to no way that you'll have a chance at being reaped. Don't get your hopes up."

"I'll make you proud," I insist. "After Lorraine—"

My mother raises her hand, eyes closed. "Zella. I don't want to hear any of it. What happened three years ago to your sister has no effect on your chances of being reaped, let alone winning. Just…just go."

I frown. My mother, Femma Dempsey, has been irritable and short with me ever since my older sister died in the Games three years ago. I'm determined, though, to regain my family's sense of pride in the world. I stand up abruptly, shrugging off my mother's hands and walking to the door to my bedroom, slipping on my polished black high heels. "I'm going to meet up with Gemma," I mutter, whipping the door open. "I'll see you at the reapings."

With that, I flounce out of the room and slam the door behind myself, ignoring my mother's irritated calls of my name. _And who said that all divas are teenagers? _I laugh to myself.

* * *

><p><strong>Colakis Maphen, 18. District 1<strong>

"Don't do it," Marianthe whispers in my ear. I turn my head and kiss her cheek, stroking a tear from the alabaster skin there.

"I won't follow through with it. Just because Neas is telling me to volunteer for the Games doesn't mean that I'll actually _do_ it," I insist to my girlfriend quietly.

She buries herself more deeply in my arms, walking with me towards the main square of District 1. There's the Justice Building, made from white marble and studded with lights that reflect gloriously off of the gems embedded at choice intervals. There's already a large crowd jostling in the square; Marianthe and I must almost be late. I catch a glimpse of my best friend, Neas, a well-built guy of eighteen. His golden buzz cut glitters in the blinding sunlight as he sprints towards us.

"Hey!" he calls once he draws near. Neas locks his eyes with mine. "So are you gonna do it?" he asks, his tone serious and mocking at the same time.

I glare at him. "No."

"Wimp," he shoots back. "And you call yourself a District 1 guy!"

I turn away from him, grabbing Marianthe's hand and pulling her closer to the stage. Neas, the jackass that he is, follows behind at a smug pace. At the moment, I hate him.

The idiot from the Capitol, a certain Ianan Ugg, steps onto the stage to thunderous applause, whistles, and cheers. He's one of the most odd-looking things in all of Panem, tall and gangly like a spider and with these horrid acid-green wings surgically attached to his back. His slicked-back neon blue hair shines with the glare from the sun. "People of District 1," he begins, going on to prattle about the history of Panem, the story of the rebellion, all of the same stuff. Finally, two Avoxes bring the massive glass bowls filled with the names of every eligible teenager in all of District 1. Ianan smiles up at us with unnaturally white teeth, his eyes glinting maliciously.

"Let's begin."

* * *

><p><strong>Zella Dempsey, 18. District 1<strong>

"Ladies first." Ianan dips a clawed hand into the glass orb and retrieves a single white card, waving it in the air for all to see before examining it. "Our female tribute is...Lana Cartwright."

A thirteen-year-old with her hair in a single white-blond ponytail steps out of the crowd of her friends, walking slowly towards the stage. I feel a pang of sympathy, and my friend, Gemma, gives a sigh of weariness. This girl, despite probably being trained all her life, is going to be no match for the rest of the tributes that will probably come her way. But still, no other girl volunteered, just letting Lana walk to her certain death.

But I know that I can save her. I can do this and still make my family proud, regaining the respect that District 1 had ceased to feel for us when my older sister was the first person killed in the bloodbath three years ago. I swallow and step out of the crowd. "I volunteer!" I yell loudly, quelling all of my nervousness and raising my chin.

Ianan glances at me, and I can see Lana let out a relieved sigh. Ianan regains his composure and throws his arms wide. "Come up, then!" he announces.

I walk to the platform, steeling myself and covering my face with a not entirely genuine smile. Ianan asks me my name. I look out at the crowd and state, "My name is Zella Dempsey."

For a heart-wrenching moment, the mob is silent. My fake smile fades. But then the people of District 1 start to cheer for me, and suddenly I'm grinning and laughing so hard that I can barey hear as Ianan announces, "Ladies and gentleman of District 1, here is your female tribute, Zella Dempsey!"

And isn't that the most wonderful thing to hear?

* * *

><p><strong>Colakis Maphen, 18. District 1<strong>

I watch as Zella gives the crowd a final dazzling smile before she draws to the side. Ianan motions with a spindly hand and the Avoxes move the girls' orb and replaces it with the boys' one.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen," he drawls. "That was quite the reception for Zella. But now we must choose the male tribute." The crowd hushes as that familiar clawed hand scoops out the card that holds the fate of a single boy. He opens it and smiles. "Ladies and gentlemen, our very own Neas Rinoh!"

My jaw drops and I look behind myself at Neas, who is wearing an expression halfway between shock and elation. His eyes meet mine as he steps into the large aisle that leads to the platform. _Do it,_ he mouths to me, and I can't believe him. He still wants me to volunteer, even for him?

But maybe he's on to something. My dad's been training me for this since I could walk, and he'd be disappointed if I just squandered that all just because I was a coward. And now Neas is giving me a look that seems to hold all the accusations in the world, and I can't bear it and before I know it I'm ripping my hand from Marianthe's and I'm stepping forward-

"I, Colakis Maphen, volunteer as tribute!"

The people of District 1 immediately burst into cheers for me as I ascend to the stage, shoving Neas out of the way. I brush past Ianan, making sure to aim a quick grin at the applauding crowd. I share a glance with Zella. She gives me a fleeting grin and nods in acknowledgement; at that moment I know that we have an alliance, at least for now.

Ianan spreads his arms in welcome and laughs, "Well, District 1, this is it! In just a little while, Zella and Colakis will be off to the Capitol to get ready for the 32nd Hunger Games!" He allowed the applause to draw on before ushering Zella and me into the Justice Building.

Soon after he leaves us in the foyer, my father, sister, brother, and Marianthe enter the room. My dad gruffly pats my back and smiles. "You did well, son," he tells me, gives me one last lingering look, and then leaves.

My ten-year-old brother, Dalton, approaches and gives me a hug, looking up at me with sad green eyes. "You're coming back, right?" he asks. He doesn't know that the Hunger Games are just massacres; we don't let him watch them. I look down at him and nod wordlessly, unable to speak past the knot in my throat. Dalton smiles. "Good."

His retreating figure is replaced by my older sister's. Koda takes my hands and kisses my forehead. "I hate these Games," she murmurs to me, "but I have a feeling that you'll kick ass." She smiles weakly and walks away.

Marianthe approaches last, crushing me in a massive hug. She buries her head in my chest, and I feel hot tears wet my shirt. "Why?" she whispers.

"I had to."

She pulls away from me and grabs something from around her neck. She grabs my shoulders, turns me around, and clips something around my own neck. I look down and see a bronze and gold pendant resting on my chest, dangling from a sturdy golden chain. The pendant is a disc with a diameter of about an inch. "Now you'll always have me," she murmurs to me. I try to reach for her, but Marianthe flees from the room, her sobs echoing against the walls.

"Bye," I whisper to nobody in particular.

* * *

><p><strong>Zella Dempsey, 18. District 1<strong>

I sit on the train next to Colakis, alternating between watching the scenery flash by and observing my district partner. He's well-muscled and tall, with shoulder-length brown hair. I turn away and fiddle with the round golden pendant around my neck. It is a gift from my father, who is a master engraver.

Ianan walks into the train compartment and beckons us to dinner. I share a glance with Colakis and get up, following Ianan's bobbing wings to the dining car.

The rolling of the train reminded me that I shouldn't be enjoying myself, that I'm on a train taking me to my death. I picked at my food, noticing Colakis doing the same.

It was going to be a long train ride.

* * *

><p><strong>Remember, I need tributes! And it'd be awesome if they were either really young (12-14) and bloodbath kids. I need both. Yeah, so I'd love some reviews. (Note: They may help your tribute's survival in the long run. Hint, hint.)<strong>


	4. District 2 Reapings

**Mallory Jewel, 12. District 2**

"Mallory, dear, could you grab that salt shaker and pass it to me?" My mother, Narcissa Jewel, holds her hand out and I pass her the jewel-studded shaker. "Thanks, honey."

I try my best to show an innocent, childlike smile, though inside I'm way too annoyed to listen to her. I'm 12! I shouldn't have to be called _honey_ and _dear_ and _sweetie!_ "Mom," I whine, "Can I just go get ready? The reapings are super soon!"

My mother gives me a half-hard, half-proud glance. "You're excited for the reapings, then?" she asks casually, spearing an egg with her fork and raising it to her lips with practiced ease. I know what she's thinking. She and my dad won the Games in consecutive years, she winning the 4th Games at 13 years old and my dad in the 5th when he was 15. I come from a family of victors, so why not throw myself into the Games to live up to my family's stellar reputation?

"I'm going to volunteer!" I reply excitedly, for once giving my mother a bright smile that isn't fake. "I'm going to make you proud, Mother!"

She smiles indulgently at me, picking up my plate and putting it in the sink. As she washes the dish, she calls over her shoulder, "Well, Mallory, then today's the day! I've set out your reaping outfit on your bed. Get to it so we can go to your big event!"

I grin and and run upstairs to my bedroom, sighing in pleasure when I see that my mother has set out my favorite ensemble: a lacy white blouse with a baby blue skirt. I hurriedly throw the clothes on, looking in the mirror and puckering my glossed lips. I give my curly golden hair a cursory fluffing before I hurry downstairs. "Where are my shoes, Mother?" I call shrilly through the house.

"Coming, dear!" She comes out of the living room with my favorite blue flats in her hands. She places them at my feet and waits while I slip them on. I look at the wall clock and shriek.

"It's almost time! We're going to be late!" I gasp, and I literally pull my mother out the front door of our house in the Victors' Village, hurrying through the depths of District 2.

* * *

><p><strong>Trevor Gilman, 15. District 2<strong>

I glance longingly at the baker's shop as my parents usher me through the streets of our district. The baker, Lars Benlat, calls out, "Hello, Mayor Gilman! Off to the reapings, I see?"

"Yes, Lars!" my father replies, puffing out his chest. "My boy here is going to volunteer for the Hunger Games!" He pats me heartily on the back.

Lars grins cheekily, glancing at my bulging stomach. "I see that Trevor won't have any problem with hunger! He's been putting on the extra food from my shop since he's been a little toddler!" He and my dad roar with laughter, and my mother giggles behind her hand. I am mortified. Sure, I love food, but am I really _that_ fat?

I run off, shaking away from my parents' grips. I keep running until I reach the town square, stopping to pant and sidle through the crowd that has gathered there. The anthem of Panem sounds while an armed squad of Peacekeepers marches out on stage in full ceremonial uniform. I gaze in wonder at the perfectly muscled men. This is what I could be, what I dream of being, but I love food so _much_! How could I be a Peacekeeper if I'm the fattest kid in the entirety of District 2?

The escort for our district, Elle Reekmans, is tottering up onto the stage in ridiculously tall high heels (I think they're 10 inches) and an all black suit that seems to be made of rubber.

"Welcome, welcome, people of District 2!" she trills, waggling taloned fingers at us with a black-lipsticked grin. "It is once again time for the Hunger Games! Let's begin, everybody!"

* * *

><p><strong>Mallory Jewel, 12. District 2<strong>

Elle teeters her way over to the females' orb, fishing around in the hodgepodge of papers for a while before withdrawing one. She pries it open with her insanely long fingernails and smiles when she looks up. "Your District 2 female tribute is Kalia Hertz!"

A tall, willowy eighteen-year-old blond pushes her way out of the crowd and struts towards the platform, her grin splitting her gorgeous face in two as the people of District 2 cheer her on. I'm in a state of calm, collected determination and rage, watching Kalia saunter along like she owns the place. This girl will not be in the Games, not if I can help it. This is my time to shine.

"I volunteer!" I yell, running out into the aisle that is lined with armed Peacekeepers. "I volunteer!" I repeat, more firmly this time.

Kalia whips around and gives me a glare that could probably have killed me if I wasn't so well-trained against people like her. Her expression of rage and hatred gives me the ultimate satisfaction as I brush past her, making my way up the stairs of the Justice Building to the beautiful music of thunderous applause. I'm well-known in the district; I've made sure of that.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen, we have a change of plans! Your new female tribute is..." Elle trails off and bends down to me. "What's your name, dear?" she asks.

_Dear again_? I think indignantly. But I put on my best smile and burble, "Mallory Jewel!"

Elle stands back up. "Mallory Jewel, everybody!"

I smile and wave to the cheering, surging crowds of District 2. I catch my mother's eyes and her wide smile turns positively radiant, and she waves and cheers for me. "Mallory!" she calls over and over again, proclaiming my name to the masses. The mob echoes her, caught up in a chorus of exuberance.

"Mallory!"

* * *

><p><strong>Trevor Gilman, 15. District 2<strong>

She walks off to the the side of the stage, and I frown with dissatisfaction. I have to volunteer and be district partners with Little Miss Hunger Games Victors' Child? I sigh quietly to myself. _Well, beggars can't be choosers, eh?_

Elle smiles indulgently after Mallory, obviously taking a liking to the slight blond-haired twelve-year-old. She wobbles her way to the males' orb, waving her arms wildly for a moment as she nearly trips over a loose stone that's made its way onto the the Justice Building's pristinely swept platform. "Woops!" she giggles, and the children of 2, including me, snicker at her total idiocy.

My parents come up behind me; my father places a hand on my shoulder. I choose to let it stay there. "Are you going to do it, love?" my mother whispers in my ear. I turn to her and nod. She purses her lips in a teary smile and presses something into my hand. It feels smooth and warm, and I look down to see a beautifully carved silver spoon in the palm of my hand. "So you can have a piece of home in the Games," she smiles to me, her lips quivering.

I barely hear as Elle calls the name of some poor 14-year-old. I barely notice as the scrawny kid begins to walk towards the platform. All I know is my mother's arms, which shake with sobs as she embraces me quickly, squeezing me tightly. "I'll see you on the other side," I murmur to my mother and break free from her grasp, gripping the silver spoon tightly in my right hand. "I volunteer as tribute!" I announce, halting the 14-year-old in his steps.

Elle looks shocked for a moment, and I resent the glance of disdain and confusion that she gives me as her eyes rake my overweight body. I hear the rest of the district muttering, snickering, whispering amongst themselves. Of course, mock the mayor's boy, the disappointment of a kid who lives to eat. "Well, come on up, then!" Elle exclaims, regaining her composure and beckoning me up with a single crooked finger.

I walk as confidently as I can to the stage, trying to focus on not letting a single hint of a waddle make its way into my step. I ascend the large steps, making my way to where Elle stands in all her rubber-suited glory. "I'm Trevor Gilman," I announce to her before she can even open her mouth to ask my name.

"Ah, _Trevor_." She says my name as if it explains all that I am. Elle turns to the crowd and opens her arms in a gesture of acknowledgement. "Ladies and gentlemen, Mallory Jewel and Trevor Gilman, your District 2 tributes!"

The crowd roars, cheering for the mayor's son and the girl who surely has victory in her blood.

I smile at the applause, the crowd rooting me on. Finally. A victory of my own.

* * *

><p><strong>Mallory Jewel, 12. District 2<strong>

I sit at the table on the train, raking my eyes over the rich food selections. Stew, beef, vegetables, even a whole turkey! I take meager but generous portions of each dish, wanting to milk my experience with the Capitol for all I have before I enter the arena, maybe never to come out again.

Trevor, I notice, is eating mammoth portions, but I can see that he's trying to exercise some restraint, trying to not be entirely full of fat before the Games. He feels my gaze and looks up, his pale face screwed in an expression of worry and sadness. I hate to admit it, but under all that extra fat, he's quite handsome. His dark brown hair is combed over his dark eyes, which meet my own across the rocking table. I swear I can see my own blue eyes reflected in his hazel ones.

"Are you okay?" he asks, looking genuinely sympathetic. "Big shock, huh?"

"Yeah," I mutter, fingering my silver necklace pendant. "Some game, huh?"

He nods, and once again I notice the beauty in his face, so weary-looking for 15 years. "Some game."


	5. District 3 Reapings

Fair warning, guys- Chapters are getting shorter. Please don't hate me if your tribute doesn't get enough time, or whatever. I need to get to these Games before I explode! So they'll be less elaborate and more getting to the point.

* * *

><p><strong>Karin Litt, 16. District 3<strong>

I run through the dawn-kissed street, trying to step only in the patches of multicolored light that drips from lamps on houses and in their windows. The rest of District 3 is waking, and I watch and listen to the familiar sounds of my electricity-driven home. I pass the marble-clad Justice Building, which is empty and desolate and devoid of any signatures of human life.

For now.

At two o' clock, that'll all change. At two, every male and female between the ages of 12 and 18 will be corraled into this main square. At two, an outrageously dressed Capitol cronie will pick out two names and those teenagers will be escorted to the train to the Capitol, probably to never come back.

Nobody from 3 ever comes back.

I slip through the dark alleyways where my apartment is nestled, running into the building and up, up, up the stairs to my small home. I twist the slightly rusted doorknob and walk in to the space. "Mother?" I call quietly, flipping on the lights in the small condo. "Are you awake?"

"I am now." My mother, Anya, walks through the curtain that separates her bedroom from the rest of our home, rubbing the sleep from her pale green eyes. She's small and slight like me, with the same sillky black hair and smooth, unworn face. "So you're back from your pre-dawn wanderings?" she asks good-naturedly.

I hum my response and meander into the kitchen, grabbing a bright red apple and biting into it slowly. "The reapings are at two," I remind her. "I still have to get ready and meet up with James beforehand."

My mother raises her eyebrows, nodding slowly with a knowing look. "Okay, well, I had Portianne clean your good green dress, so you can wear that." She disappears behind the hand-sewn curtain to my own room and emerges with a forest-green dress that flows with my mother's every movement. She holds it up. "Are you satisfied?" she asks hopefully, smiling weakly at me.

I walk over to her and give her a warm embrace. I know how nervous she is about me possibly being reaped, and I know that she buries her fears in making me as happy as possible now, just in case she might lose me someday. "It's perfect," I murmur to her. "Always perfect."

"Let's make it last," she replies.

* * *

><p><strong>Erik Wells, 17. District 3<strong>

It's nearly noon when I wake up. The sun is streaming in to my bedroom through grease-smeared windows, making me squint as I stretch my aching muscles. "Owwww," I groan as nearly every single vertabra in my spine gives a good and supple _crack_.

"Suck it up!" my 22-year-old brother, Ty, calls, passing the open doorway to my room. He leans on the weathered wood there and stands there, frowning at me with his dark grey eyes and pouting mouth. "Get ready for the reapings. You're supposed to be there in two hours." He disappears from my doorway, whistling as his footsteps direct themselves to the kitchen.

I glance at my bedside clock, and curse loudly when I realize Ty's right. "I wanted to hang out with James and Philip today!" I complain.

Ty pops his head back into my room. "Again," he grins, "suck it up!"

I throw a shoe at him and he ducks, just barely dodging the projectile. "Save your aim for the Games," he smirks. "I would, if I were you."

"Shut up."

About an hour later, I finally emerge from my room, clad in a dark blue shirt and black pants. "Am I good?" I ask, opening my arms and inviting any criticism.

My mother and brother give me identical appraising looks. "Fix your hair, young man," my mother, Cheyenne, scolds. I quickly run my fingers through my shaggy mop of dark blond hair and she nods approvingly. "Better, though I'm not totally thrilled."

"You never are," I remind her.

She glares at me, sensing the joke in my tone. "True," she admits with a small smile. "But I don't want my son going to the reapings with his hair messed up!"

Ty glances sharply at my mother. "You're _excited_ for him to go? You want him to get reaped?" he demands incredulously.

"Of course not!" she retorts. "I just want him looking good!"

"Great," I mutter scathingly. "At least if I get the death sentence, I'll look good."

* * *

><p><strong>Karin Litt, 16. District 3<strong>

"District 3, gather around!" Trinal Werro, our Capitol escort, announces in his familiar reedy, high voice. He, for the ten thousandth time in the past five minutes, straightens his bright purple suit, adjusting the neon blue bowtie that accompanied it. "A very special day today, District 3!"

"Great," my best friend, James, murmurs in my ear. "A _special_ day."

I raise my eyebrows at him wordlessly, taking in his barely perceptible smirk and the set of his eyebrows. He's joking; I've gotten better at discerning when he actually is and when he's serious. "Yeah," I reply absently, watching in fascination as Trinal crosses the stage to the females' bowl and, with a flourish, scoops out a piece of the shimmering green paper that is the trademark of District 3. I nudge James's arm and subconciously grab his hand in my nervousness. "He's got the name," I whisper. "He's opening the paper-"

"Karin Litt!"

I freeze.

James, standing by my side, mutters a low and shocked "No."

"Yes," I whisper in terror. "I've been reaped."

James squeezes my hand so tightly that I can barely feel it anymore; I give him a terrified look. His eyes are wide as saucers, and I think that they're brimming with tears. He leans over and whispers quietly and hurriedly in my ear, but my mind is swirling and his words are lost on me. I grip his hand for all it's worth until the Peacekeepers grab my other arm and yank me from his grasp, dragging me to the aisle. I look up at the stage, with Trinal Werro beckoning me warmly. The eyes of District 3 and any people watching the televised reapings are watching this. I can't show weakness. I steel myself and begin to walk to the stage, listening for any noise from the surrounding crowds of District 3.

Nobody volunteers.

I walk to the stage alone.

Trinal ushers me up the steps, shaking my numb hand for all it's worth. "Quite the honor, my dear," he assures me. Then he turns to the crowd and raises my hand. "Ladies and gentlemen, Karin Litt!"

* * *

><p><strong>Erik Wells, 17. District 3<strong>

Karin trudges off to the side of the stage. From my spot next to Ty, I can catch sight of the short, slim 18-year-old cracking her knuckles nervously. I would be nervous too if I had just been reaped. I just stand there and watch Karin's every movement, imagining myself up there, imagining being in her shoes.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Trinal squeaks, "Your District 3 male tribute is..."

"Just get it over with and reap the poor sap already," I hear Ty grumble from beside me.

Trinal opens the green card with a flourish. "Erik Wells!"

My mind goes on overdrive, making me wish that I could just drop, just relinquish control of my limbs and fall. Dead.

But my body disagrees. It forces me forward one step, and then another. I break away from Ty's reach and drag my leaden, zombielike limbs to the stage. It's paralyzing, that shock that consumes me and makes me feel nearly dead inside. I've been reaped. Dear god, I've been reaped!

Nobody volunteers for me as I ascend the steps to the stage, and the applause from our district is polite as Trinal grabs my hand and Karin's and raises them, proclaiming, "Laides and gentlemen of District 3, here are your tributes, Karin Litt and Erik Wells!"

And the crowd claps, putting on fake smiles for the cameras. I wish I could do that.

I wish I could do that as we're escorted to the Justice Building.

I wish I could do that as my mother and brother press a silver marble into my hand.

I wish I could do that as I watch Karin receive a pearl hairpin from her mother and best friend.

I wish I could do that as we are bustled onto the train and take off for the Capitol.

But I can't clap like the crowd.

I'm already dead inside.

* * *

><p><strong>Karin Litt, 18. District 3<strong>

I remember what he said now.

_Whether you live or die, I'll always love you. I always have._

But it's too late now to tell him.

We're already speeding for the Capitol.

I can never tell him that I love him back.


	6. District 4 Reapings

**Scout Rosewell, 16. District 4**

The sea is in low tide, lapping at our bare feet as the three of us walk along the sun-kissed shore. There's me, my boyfriend Edward, and my best friend Maria. We just walk, not minding the water. We've grown up in the water. It's how we live, after all.

"Did you hear about the girl from 3?" Maria breaks the silence, her smooth voice cutting through the air like a silken blade.

Edward looks around at her from my other side, raising his golden-brown eyebrows in question. "What happened? She got reaped, right?"

Maria smirks. She tosses her shimmering auburn hair over her shoulder and replies, "She nearly had her arm pulled off, she was so nervous. She was clinging to this tall guy who I think was her boyfriend." She frowns briefly before barking out a harsh laugh. "She's two years older than us and she was acting like a 12-year-old! How pathetic!"

I giggle in response, leaning into Edward's shoulder and holding tight to his arm. "So, our reapings are today," I begin.

"Yeah, and I suppose you'll volunteer, Scout?" Maria scoffs.

I frown. Maria and Edward don't know that I'd love being in the Games. The fame, the luxury...the killings. I've never admitted it to anybody, but I love that rush that I feel when I kill anything, be it a fish or some other wriggling sea creature of unknown descent. To watch crimson blood trail and drip past my fingers...

"No, of course she won't volunteer," Edward interrupts my reverie. He glares down at me from his 6-foot-two-inch vantage point, his gorgeous emerald eyes glittering with worry. "Right, Scout?" he prompts me. "You won't leave, right?"

"Right," I assure him.

_Wrong, _I correct myself. _Wrong, wrong, wrong._

* * *

><p><strong>David J. Martin Wilson, 17. District 4<strong>

"It's nice out today." My mother attempts to begin a conversation. Of course, that only makes the situation more awkward.

My girlfriend, Bianca, nods politely. "I saw the ocean earlier this morning," she answers. "It was the most gorgeous color." She looks up at me with a grin. "The shadowy bits of the sand looked like your eyes," she says.

We're walking to the main square of District 4, sifting our sandaled feet through the fine white sand that carpets the streets of our seaside district. The sun is high; it's one-fifty-five in the afternoon and the day is warm and breezy.

We enter the square; look at the coral-clad Justice Building. Already, nearly the entire district is gathered here. I catch a glimpse of my two best friends, Paul and Mark, and pull Bianca towards them, leaving my mother in the dust. "Hey," I call to them when we're just yards away from each other.

Paul tosses his golden-brown hair out of his eyes with a practiced head-flick. "What's up?" he asks. He nods in acknowledgement to my girlfriend (his ex). "Hey, Bianca."

Her silver-blue eyes are cold. "Paul," she replies shortly.

The tense air between us is alleviated by our Capitol escort, Larlene Echerion, stepping onto the stage. For once, she's actually looking somewhat like a regular human. She has a fiery red hairdo and is wearing a sparkling blue suit that clashes magnificently with her hair. "District 4!" she trills, beckoning the scattered crowd together with a single, long white index finger. "Today's the day, District 4! Today, two lucky and courageous teenagers will have the honor of participating in the 32nd annual Hunger Games!"

Bianca lets out a bored sigh and examines her manicured fingernails. I know how she feels. This is actually the most boring part of the year. Nothing actually happens unless you get reaped.

Larlene picks out a sea-blue card and examines the name written there. She looks up with a grin and announces, "Your female tribute is Scout Rosewell!"

I crane my neck and peer past the applauding hands to see 16-year-old Scout, the beauty of our district, giving her boyfriend a sad smile before ascending the stage, her wavy raven-black hair billowing behind her. She courteously shakes hands with Larlene and flashes a quick, innocent smile out at the crowd. I'm not fooled. Scout's known to be manipulative and deadly, and I feel sorry for the poor guy from our district who has to go into the arena with her.

"David J. Martin Wilson!"

Of course.

* * *

><p><strong>Scout Rosewell, 16. District 4<strong>

David comes up from the crowd with a cocky, pleased grin. I size him up, appraising his strengths and advantages that he could have over me. He's tall and slim with that trademark perfect tan and amazing build that nearly all people from District 4 possess. His black hair is cut short, but not obnoxiously so. He seems to be confident and in control.

I already hate him.

After a brief introduction by Larlene and a thunderous bout of applause, we are escorted into the massive Justice Building. I watch David's every movement, reaction, and mannerism as he kisses his girlfriend goodbye. She presses a small silver locket into his hand, gives him a teary, proud smile, and disappears in fits of weeping. David's mother and father are, thankfully, far more controlled than the crying girlfriend. David receives a peck to the cheek and a firm, reassuring pat on the back.

And then David is gone, bustled away to the train that will take us to the Capitol.

My parents, Julianna and Damion, come up to me and give me proud hugs. "Darling, I know you'll win," my mother assures me. "You'll do wonderfully." I get more or less the same words from my father.

Next comes Edward. He looks miserable as he pulls me into a tight, shaking hug. I embrace him tightly back as I realize that I'm actually in love with my boyfriend...and I'm about to lose him. "I love you," he whispers in my ear. He turns me around and places something around my neck. I look down and see, against my chest, there is a pendant nestled in the folds of my shirt. I reach up and examine it; it's a small trident made of flawless blue metal, and there's a black 'E' embossed in the staff of the trident in shimmering black.

"It's beautiful, Edward," I stammer with, to my horror, a bit of tearyness. I pull him into another embrace and murmur, "I'll miss you," I murmur, placing my hand on his cheek before Edward nods wordlessly and turns to walk away. I gaze after him sadly, realizing that I'll probably never see him again.

There's a tug on my shirt; I look down and see my little brother Scott gazing up at me with wide, innocent blue eyes. I crouch down and look into the eyes of the child ten years my junior. "Hey, buddy," I whisper to him.

Scott blinks at me from underneath his shaggy, shiny black hair. "Are you going to the Games, Scout?" he asks quietly.

I nod, trying to keep my voice from trembling. "Yeah, Scotty-boy. I'm going off to the Hunger Games." Of all the people I've ever met, little Scott is the only one that's ever truly touched my heart.

"Are you going to die there?" he asks.

"I might, baby boy." I'm almost crying now.

He frowns, his bottom lip trembling. "I _hope_ you come back, Scout." He holds out his clenched fist and opens it. In his palm is a tiny spiral shell with a tiny hole punched through it. "Put it on your Edward necklace," he urges me. I pull him into a tight hug and hold him there, weeping now. He pats my back with his tiny toddler hands and says, "Bye, Scout. I'm gonna miss you."

And then he's gone.

I am taken to the train.

And it rolls away.

Away from the only person I've ever truly loved.

* * *

><p><strong>David J. Martin Wilson, 17. District 4<strong>

Scout is crying. I see past it now, see past that infallible shield she's put up. Something, _someone_, has shaken her. Something made her crack.

I see that there's a weakness in Scout.

Now all I need to do is use it against her.

That's how the Hunger Games work.

No mercy.

Ever.


	7. District 5 Reapings

**Kylar Okray, 16. District 5**

This is it. Today, I know that I might be sent to my death.

Is it bad that I am not afraid?

I throw myself a cursory glance in the cracked mirror, noting the messiness of my shaggy black hair and the dark circles around my dual-colored eyes. The one with a chocolate iris is shadowed with worry and heavy lids; the other is that electric blue that almost always shocks people away.

My little sister, at eleven years, walks into my bedroom timidly, peering at me quietly until I notice her. When I do, I am, as usual, overcome with sadness at the emanciation that is evident in her thin face, how thinly her dark hair hangs about her shoulders. "Hey, Circiele," I smile to her.

"Hi, Kylar." She is quiet again, watching me trying to wrestle away a particularly annoying knot that has made a mess of the hair next to my ear. I'm nearly jumping out of my skin as she speaks again, startling me. "So the reapings are today, right?" she asks.

"Yeah," I answer, taking in her unkempt appearance and sadder than normal expression. "Circiele, what is it?" I question, leaving my spot at the mirror to grasp my little sister's hands in my own.

Circiele's eyes are angry and miserable. "Daddy is drunk again. He's passed out on the couch."

I sigh and pick up my sister, disregarding the fact that she is almost of reaping age and shouldn't be babied by me constantly. "Dad's always drunk, Circiele," I assure her. "It's nothing new. We've survived without his help for years, right?" She nods silently and I smile. "Of course I'm right."

She grins quietly at me, sharing in our joint misfortune with a hint of humor. It's funny, really, how we're in the district that nearly powers the entirety of Panem, but we're very nearly as poor as the people in the Seam in District 12. "Kylar," Circiele chides suddenly, her musical voice jerking me from my thoughts. "It's almost reaping time!"

I check my watch (one of the only things we own that has any value or working ability) and see that she's right. "Right you are, little sister," I laugh, wiping a smudge of grime from Circiele's cheek before I carry her into the main room of the house, not even taking notice of my father, passed out and snoring on the couch, before I stride out the door. We emerge in the slums of District 5, where the only light comes from filtered sunlight and flickering neon tubes that twist in the forgotten corners from the ancient time before Panem. We pass through the dark alleyways, emerging into the light, airy, technologically advanced world of the fortunate. Here, large crowds flock towards the main square of District 5.

"Hurry!" Circiele urges me, and I pick up speed, struggling to make it into the main square. We arrive just as a fanfare of Panem's anthem heralds the arrival of our escort, Quiren Merrytrique. He's a fat little man with an enormous mustache the color of neon mustard.

"District 5, gather around! It's time for the all-important reapings!" he calls. "Let's begin!"

* * *

><p><strong>Xienna Rider, 15. District 5<strong>

Quiren draws a single, flourescent-looking card from the immaculate glass orb of female names. He makes as if to read it, and I grip the hands of my siblings, Xavier and Xandra. We're all of reaping age, and I've sworn that if Xandra gets reaped, I'll volunteer for her. So I wait for the result, just praying that I won't hear my little sister's name.

"Xienna Rider!"

I gasp, staggering away from my siblings and walking nearly robotically up to the stage. When I look out into the crowd, I see that Xandra is sobbing, and when I lock eyes with Xavier, I try to muster a brave smile before he starts crying as well. I look up at myself on the massive, panoramic screen that shows me my face, being broadcasted to Panem live. My eyes are brimming with tears; a single drop escapes and runs down my cheek, falling from my chin to land on the skirt of my pale pink dress. I swallow and rid my face of all emotions, only letting loose a thin grin when Quiren holds up my hand and announces, "Xienna Rider, ladies and gentlemen!"

The applause nearly deafens me, but it is over soon and I step to the side of the stage. Quiren beckons for the next orb to be brought to him, and two Avoxes hold it in front of him as he whips out the flourescent card with a flourish. I scan the young faces in the crowd, trying to pick out which one will be picked. Will it be one of the urchins from the slums, or one of the geniuses from the prestigious skyrises of the elite?

"Your male tribute is Kylar Okray!" Quiren announces, and I hear a child's wail of despair. I crane my neck and try to spot the source when I see a boy with scruffy black hair, probably a year or two older than me, emerging from the crowd. I see a thin girl just underneath reaping age trying to push past the Peacekeepers that bar her way. This boy, Kylar, looks sad but strangely unsurprised. I watch as he climbs the steps of the stage, receiving similar treatment from Quiren and the crowd. Quiren beckons me over, and he lifts my hands with Kylar's.

"Ladies and gentlemen of District 5, here are your tributes, Kylar Okray and Xienna Rider!"

* * *

><p><strong>Kylar Okray, 16. District 5<strong>

We're on the train now. I'm stewing in a mess of fury, hate, and despair.

My father, probably still drunk out of his mind, didn't show up to see me off. All I had was Circiele, who added one of our only small gemstones from our inheritance to the worn leather necklace that I got from my mother before she was electrocuted back when I was nine. I hugged Circiele as if I would never see her again.

Which is probably true.

Xienna is sitting beside me, fingering her silvery charm bracelet with a charm from every person in her family. I know her type. Sweet and innocent on the outside, but obviously lethal and determined to win. She could be an ally, but I'll definitely sleep with one eye open near her.

This is the Hunger Games, after all.

In this world, it's eat or be eaten.


	8. District 6 Reapings

**For some reason, I feel as if this chapter is clumsily written. To the submitters of these tributes, I'm sorry if I've portrayed your tribute wrong. This is what came to mind.**

* * *

><p><strong>Haley Francis Donner, 15. District 6<strong>

"Time for the reapings!" the orphanage matron calls out, walking around and nearly pushing us out of our beds. "Get up, and don't be lazy about it!" She stops at my bed, where I'm already dressed and ready to go. "Haley," she appraises with a grudging hint of pride. "You're up and raring to go, I see."

I straighten my back and put on an emotionless face, only letting my eyes show the fiery spirit, humor, and pride that so many people notice in me. "Yes, ma'am," I reply obediently. "This is, after all, the most important day of the year. We can't miss it."

"Right you are, Haley," the matron chuckles, showing surprisingly white teeth. "Well, make sure you wake up the others before you go down for breakfast. Especially that lazy redheaded friend of yours, Rose."

"Will do, ma'am," I answer, watching as she stomps back down our row of beds, stopping to yell at a small, terrified 12-year-old girl who put her reaping outfit on backwards. I rush to the child as soon as the matron is gone and adjust the pale yellow dress that reaches to her ankles, like mine. "There you go, Layla," I say softly. "And don't worry, you won't get reaped. Your name's only in there once."

Layla nods, breaking away from me to fix her bedsheets into the pristine condition that is expected of us here at the orphanage. "I'm sure you're right," she sighs.

"Good." I ruffle her sleep-affected hair and walk away, running back down the aisle to wake up my best friend, Rose Tramph. "Reapings!" I call, jumping on her slumbering back and sitting on her. "Wake up!"

Rose groans and swats me, but ends up shoving me off of her back and onto the floor. She hops out of the bed and quickly dresses before she glares at me, still on the floor. Of course, she can't hold the angry look for long, what with the goofy smile I'm giving her. She grins and playfully hits me, pulling me up from the floor. "Come on, we have to go," she insists, dragging me out of the emptying dormitory. "We can't miss the reapings, Haley, you know that!"

"One would almost think that you're excited for the reapings, Rose," I grumble back at her.

"Oh, shut up," she replies, dragging me down the spiraling stone staircase to the front door of the orphanage, where everybody else is already filing into the old orphanage trolley that we have. The matron pokes her head out the window and beckons us. "Well, now we've done it," Rose complains. "You've made us late, Haley!"

"I was the one waking you up!" I protest good-naturedly, hopping into the vehicle. It stutters to life and rolls onto the trolley tracks, chugging towards the center of District 6, where our fates lie in clear glass orbs.

* * *

><p><strong>Guire Davids, 15. District 6<strong>

I roll out from underneath the broken-down trolley, wiping the grease from my face. My father and boss, Hughson Davids, scowls at me from his spot inside an antique vehicle called a car (I think he calls this model a Ferrari) and says, "You're filthy and you're going to be late for the reapings. Go get cleaned up!" But, of course, he says it with a smile.

I nod and dash out of our family-owned mechanic shop, entering my house through the adjoining door. My mother, Anne, who's stirring a large pot of sauce, looks at me with an expression of mock horror. "You're filthy!" she exclaims. "Go get yourself cleaned up, Guire Davids!" She flicks a gob of sauce at me with her wooden spoon, splattering the red liquid all over my work overalls. "See?" she comments smugly, "You _do_ need to change your outfit!"

"This is my favorite work outfit!" I complain, trudging into my room. As soon as I open the door, my terrier-Australian Sheperd mutt jumps out at me, landing in my arms and licking my face in between frantic yips of joy. "Hey, Harry," I grin, rubbing that spot just behind his ears that makes him go limp with happiness. "I gotta get dressed, dude." The fluffy mass of tan and gray hops out of my arms and sits patiently on the bed while I shrug on a soft blue cotton shirt and tuck it into dark grey trousers. I kick on my old, scuffed brown shoes that I wear to every reaping.

My older sister, Olive, who's 17 years old, pokes her head into my room. She's wearing a dark blue dress that goes down to mid-thigh. "Guire," she reminds me, "We have to go!"

I scowl at her - that's pretty much my only facial expression - and retort, "I'm ready."

"Surprise, surprise." She rolls her eyes, which are pale blue-gray like mine. She and I look nearly exactly the same. She has the same swishy brown hair, but mine is (of course) shorter with cowlicks sticking up on the sides. Olive waits impatiently for me, tapping her fingers on the side of her leg and sighing dramatically. "Guire..." she repeats my name, "Guire..."

"GUIRE!" echoes a far louder voice, and my 12-year-old sister, Emile, skips into the room, wearing a white dress that goes down to her knees. "Come on!" she insists, and both of my sisters drag me out of the room. They call for me to catch up as I jog after them, weaving through the streets of District 6 and trying to avoid the high-tech electric trolleys that swerve around on painted tracks. We arrive in the main square just in time, coming to a halt at the back of the jostling crowd. The square is about to fall silent when, on the other side of the square, the familiar double lines of the orphanage girls emerge from a parking area.

I see all of the girls walking proudly, their heads held high even through they know that they're the lowest of the low in society. I see one girl, short and skinny, walking at the head of the left line. For some reason, she stands out in this group, her hazel eyes laughing and proud as she strides past me.

Our escort, Reyna Polatzi, walks up to the stage to polite applause. "Happy Hunger Games, everybody!" she announces in a terribly nasal voice. "Time for the reapings of one brave man and woman to participate in the 32nd annual Hunger Games!"

* * *

><p><strong>Haley Francis Donner, 15. District 6<strong>

Reyna whips a plain, creamy white card from the silvery-clear orb. She holds it up for the cameras and announces, "Your District 6 female tribute is...Haley Francis Donner!"

I'm paralyzed with fear. Rose grabs my arm and whimpers, "No!" I see Layla, the little 12-year-old, with a look of terror on her face. I wish I could stay to say my goodbyes, but now a pair of Peacekeepers is walking towards me, their hands ready to grab me. I shoulder out of their reach and try to walk with my usual pride towards the stage, but inside, I am seething.

Me? In the Hunger Games? In these barbaric messes of blood and gore where people watch children kill children for _sport_? This...this means war.

"Haley Francis Donner, everybody!" Reyna shouts gleefully, raising my hand in her own.

Oh, yes. This could be a wonderful oppurtunity.

The joke's on you now, President Snow.

I'm coming.

* * *

><p><strong>Guire Davids, 15. District 6<strong>

It's the girl, the one I saw. She walks to the stage with her head held high, the humor in her eyes obscured by hateful fury.

But now Reyna has drawn another name, the male name. She smiles that predator's grin and reads the name of that poor kid who has to go in and fight to the death in some gruesomely assembled arena.

"Guire Davids!"

I'm shocked and do not move at first; I thought it could never be me. How...how? When I do make my way to the stage, I see my sisters' faces in the crowd and then find my father and mother holding my dog, standing at the edge of the square. A tear forms in my eye; I doubt that I'll ever see my family again. I quickly blink away the stinging, salty droplet and compose myself, knowing if the cameras catch me crying, I'll look weak and immediately be marked as a target by the other tributes that have already been reaped.

But it's hard to actually grasp the idea that I've been reaped. It's always hard like that; I've seen the shell-shocked faces of reaped tributes in the past. This is how they react to it all. And now I'm in their shoes, and I feel nearly light-headed at the thought.

Reyna snatches up my limp hand and Haley's, raising them to the sky as if we've already won the Games.

I wish that were true.

We're bustled into the Justice Building and are told to wait by Reyna, who's grinning like a crocodile now. "Now, we'll fetch all of the people who want to say goodbye. Then it's off to the Capitol!" she trills, reaching out to pinch my cheek with her long fingernails.

My entire family enters the building, and I can hear their weeping and sniffling as they approach from the shadows. My father, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "You're going to do fine, son." He claps me on the back and leaves hastily. It breaks my heart when I hear my strong father break down into sobs.

My sisters give me parting hugs before dashing away in fits of weeping.

My mother is the only one remaining in the building with me. She comes up to me and pulls me into a tight embrace, sobbing quietly. She puts a medium-sized cylinder in my hand. I look at it and see that it is a glass tube with a bronze, latched lid and a thin bronze chain. Inside are small, rolled-up tubes of paper. "What is it?" I ask, slipping the chain around my neck.

She gives me a watery smile. "It's filled with messages from us and your friends, as well as all of the pictures we could find. So you could have a bit of all of us in the arena."

"Thanks, Mother." I give her one of my rare, genuine smiles. She chokes out a sob and hugs me once more.

"Good luck," she whispers.

And then she's gone.

* * *

><p><strong>Haley Francis Donner, 15. District 6<strong>

I'm burning with jealousy, watching Guire with his large, sobbing family.

Rose and Layla come to see me, and Rose holds something behind her back. "Hi," Layla whispers to me, embracing me and crying. I hug her back, realizing that I'm losing a person that I've only just gotten to know. I kiss her forehead, as is the custom among friends in Panem.

"Goodbye, little one," I murmur. "Make sure you wake up Rose for me."

She nods and leaves after a final hug.

Then there's Rose, her dark red braid falling out and letting strands of stringy fire obscure her emerald eyes. She takes my right hand and slips a golden bracelet onto my wrist, the single circle of metal fitting snugly to my skin. "It's what my mother gave me before she died," Rose murmurs. "She told me, 'Give it to the one you will remember when they're gone.' I think you qualify, Haley."

I pull my one and only best friend into my arms, crying with her. "I'll miss you," I tell her. "I'll never, ever forget you."

"I'll never forget you either," Rose swears. She gives me a parting kiss on the forehead before she leaves me alone in the Justice Building.

When I get on the train, Guire looks up at me with sad, worried eyes. "Are you okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," I answer quietly. "I'm okay."


	9. District 7 Reapings

**Sage Smith, 13. District 7**

"Sage! Get yourself in here _now_!"

I dash out of my bedroom and run as quickly as I can to the living room, jumping over shards of broken porcelain and spare liquor bottles. My mother, with her raging green eyes and the familiar belt in her right hand, glares at me menacingly. However, knowing that punishment is unavoidable, I try to lighten the situation a bit. "Yes, Mother?" I ask, trying not to show fear or give any implications of disrespect.

She points at my father, who is drunkenly passed out on the floor. "This!" she hisses. "This is unacceptable. Your father had a hard day at work yesterday, he comes home full of liquor, and he passes out. And _you_ do nothing to make him any more comfortable than he deserves to be!" She advances on me, snapping the belt like a whip. It might as well be, for all that it's used for.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, trying to back out of the room.

"Sorry doesn't cut it!" my mother screams. She smacks the belt towards me, and I grit my teeth against the stabbing pain in my cheek as the metal buckle digs into and slashes my cheek. I turn and run from the house, yanking the front door open and dashing from it like the house is on fire. "And don't come back!" she screams from behind me. "Never come back!"

I run from the pain.

I run from the suffering that has plagued my family since my older brother was brutally killed in the Games last year.

That's all I can do.

Run.

* * *

><p><strong>James Wood, 17. District 7<strong>

I trot into the square with my little brother Joseph in my arms and my best friend Brandon loping along beside me. We're the first ones there, and there's a group of white-clad Peacekeepers erecting a platform made from polished pine wood.

"They're going to send people off to the Capitol to play games now, right, James?" Joseph asks in that high, young 8-year-old voice. "They're going to put their names in the big raffle bowl to get picked, right? Right?"

I ruffle his hair, sharing an amused glance with Brandon at my baby brother's innocence. I run a hand wearily through my messy brown hair, trying to straighten it as I put Joseph down and smile at him. "Yeah, little dude. They're going to play the games."

The rest of District 7 is filing into the main square, filling the area with the scent of pine needles and throwing sawdust into the air. I look down self-consciously, aware of the fact that I'm one of the only people who actually bothered to wear a nice button-down and some khakis. "Awkward, Brandon," I mutter, seeing our friends Tina and Jaden walking up to us in their work overalls. Jaden won the Hunger Games two years ago, due to his expertise in how to carve deadly weapons in the wintry forest arena of that year.

Tina looks at me with a barely hidden grin. "Nice outfit."

"Thank you," I shoot back with a cocky grin.

"DISTRICT 7!"

Nearly everybody in the square winces and covers their ears at the sound of the already booming voice being amplified. We all look up to the wooden platform in front of the varnished Justice Building and see our two twin escorts, Rew and Rey Bur, standing and simultaneously yelling into microphones.

"District 7," Rey begins, waving a ring-clad hand majestically, "We are gathered here-"

"To reap two of the luckiest people of District 7!" Rew interrupts his sister. "They will move on-"

"And will compete in the 32nd annual Hunger Games!"

"Let's begin!" they chime in perfect unison.

* * *

><p><strong>Sage Smith, 13. District 7<strong>

My best and only friend, Joel Crumbly, isn't paying attention.

He is inspecting the oozing gash on my cheek, trying to wipe it up with the fabric of his overalls. "You should just come live with me," he grumbles. "Your parents are out of control. Your dad's a drunk, and your mother is a-"

"I know, an abusive psychopath." I glare at him, trying to dispel any of the thoughts that he's been expressing since before my brother died in the games. "It doesn't matter now."

Joel rolls his eyes. "Come on," he snorts. "Are you really thinking that way? What are the chances of you actually being-"

"SAGE SMITH!"

His dark brown eyes widen in fear. I look up at the platform in terror, hoping that I've heard the twin voices wrong. "What?" I whisper, and somehow my voice carries to the ears of Rew and Rey.

"Come on up, Sage!" Rey beckons, waving a manicured finger in my direction. "We don't have all day!"

I stagger away from Joel's arms and walk numbly down the wide, Peacekeeper-lined aisle. I feel the eyes on me; hear the whisperings. It only makes it worse. I feel the tears rising up in my throat and spilling over past my eyelids, stinging my eyes with their saltiness.

I am sobbing and choking on my gasping breaths by the time I reach the top of the platform. I can hear the disapproving murmurs of the rest of the district. Crying makes me a target. But I let the tears fall, let them bare themselves for all of Panem to see and feel for themselves.

Rew grabs my hand and, trying to reignite the enthusiasm that was barely there in the first place, calls, "Sage Smith, everybody!"

The clapping is meager at best.

* * *

><p><strong>James Wood, 17. District 7<strong>

I watch Sage stumble off to the side of the stag and feel a pang of sympathy. I've heard of her and her parents, and I recognize her from the reapings last year, when she said goodbye to her reaped brother. This can only be making it worse.

"Why is she crying?" Joseph asks, tugging on the bottom of my gray button-down. "She should be happy about going to play games!"

"Don't worry, buddy," I tell him, ruffling his short brown-blond hair. "She's just crying with happiness."

"Oh." He goes back to chattering with Tina, who is bending down to his level and laughing when he laughs and just overall being the awesome best friend that I know.

Rew approaches the microphone once more, holding a card that I don't remember him retrieving. "Here we are, District 7!" he announces, opening the card dramatically. "Your District 7 male tribute is...James Wood!"

I jerk my head up so quickly my head spins. This can't be me, it _can't_ be! Tina, Jaden, and Brandon have their jaws dropped and their eyes scream at me to stay. Tina picks up Joseph and holds him close. I stand there so long that the Peacekeepers begin to advance on me, but I shrug them off and mount the stage. The bright sun beats down on me, blinding me and making me squint against the glare. I walk past Sage and join Rey and Rew, trying to hide the fact that I am worried about my family.

"Ladies and gentlemen..." Rew begins.

Rey picks up, "Your District 7 tributes, Sage Smith and James Wood!"

The crowd applauds, but I do not hear.

I can only hear the cries of my brother.

"Tina, why does James look so sad?"

* * *

><p><strong>Sage Smith, 13. District 7<strong>

I am sitting on the train next to James, but I ignore his concerned stares. I just curl up in the comfortable, soft warmth of the swaying chair and sob, twisting the gold and silver promise ring from Joel in my fingers. He'd been the only one to visit me before I left.

He'd given me a chaste kiss on the lips and whispered, "It's a promise that you won't forget me in that arena. Don't forget me, Sage."

"Never," I'd replied.

* * *

><p><strong>James Wood, 17. District 7<strong>

I run my fingers over the worn, freshly carved cedar surface of my token. It's a gift from my father; a beautifully and magnificently carved timber wolf , my favorite animal.

"For luck," my father had reminded me. "This animal is your strength, James."

I'd nodded and said my goodbyes. But Joseph never came to say goodbye. My mother said that she'd told him the truth of the Games.

That was what broke me.

I begin to cry too, now.

Sage's sobs echo mine.


	10. District 8 Reapings

This is going to be a weird chapter. The thing is, I just created Ranen off of the top of my head, so I don't have much to go on, and, as you said, **dramioneforinfinity**, Rosita is...different. I'll see what I can do. :)

* * *

><p><strong>Ranen Hollock, 12. District 8<strong>

My world is full of color.

I see color, I live in color, and people are color. The houses and fabrics of District 8 are in color, too.

I do not hear in color.

I hear in black. Black...is nothing.

My twin sister, Meira, walks into my room with an anxious smile on her face. I return the grin nervously, fidgeting in my seat and straightening a wrinkle on my dark green dress shirt. In truth, I'm worried about her. Meira, only twelve years old like me, might get reaped for the Hunger Games this year.

She mouths a greeting and pulls me up from my chair, dragging me out the door excitedly. I grin; she's always been anxious to see the new colors that the District 8 weavers put out every day. "Wait," I call, trying to gauge the volume of my voice by the vibrations I feel in my throat. She turns and applauds my successful efforts proudly, slowing down for me as we walk, hand in hand, to the main square.

She's right; the colors are beautiful today. Only the best for the Capitol cameras, of course.

The world's colors are beautiful today.

The event they signify, however, is as black and empty as my hearing.

* * *

><p><strong>Rosita Lockhart, 17. District 8<strong>

My boss, Violet Edinsflock, smiles indulgently at me as she straightens the reaping outfit she's sewn for me. "Darling, you'll do fine," she drawls. "After all, your name is just one of the names of hundreds of other girls. This'll just be a quick affair and we'll be done with it."

I reply, "Of course, Violet. And then I'll finally file away all of those designs that you wanted, and then we can go on with our lives." Because, honestly, what is the chance of me being reaped? I don't have to sign up for the tesserae, so there's a one-in-a-thousand chance of my name being pulled.

Violet grins, showing a trace of the cheeky 24-year-old that she really is under all that makeup and fanfare. She glances at the clock and frowns. "It's almost two. You should be going now," she announces.

I nod, whipping out one of my ever-present bottles of homemade hand sanitizer. It's a glorious invention, this stuff. I'm a total germaphobe, and I can't stand being anywhere without my sanitizer. "Yeah, I'll get going," I tell Violet absently, shrugging on my jacket as I rub the lotion into my hands. "Bye."

I leave Violet's fashion design shop without another word, strolling down the wealthiest street in all of District 8. The general population is being drawn into the main square, and I find myself jostled and bumped by careless elbows and running children. I huff in irritation and reach up to make sure that my dark brown hair is still flawlessly tucked under my hand-crocheted red beret. I notice more than a few admiring stares at the sight of my perfect outfit, which is merely a strapless dark grey dress that reaches midthigh. Of course, being the assistant to the most well-known fashion designer of our district has its perks.

"Welcome, welcome!" trills our escort, the surprisingly normal-looking Rae Darkwood. I personally suspect that she is from District 7, but that she moved to the Capitol. "The time has come, District 8!"

"Of course," I mutter, absently sniffing the sweet aroma of my herb-scented, sanitized hands in my boredom. "Just get on with it."

Rae struts over to the glass orb that holds all of the girls' names, plucking one out after rummaging around for a good while. "Here we are!" she announces. "Your District 8 female tribute for the 32nd Hunger Games is...Rosita Lockhart!"

I look up in surprise, feeling mildly amused. Of all the people, I was picked? How incredibly...fascinating. "Me?" I ask, pointing to my chest.

"Yes, dear. Just come on up," Rae urges.

I shrug and walk up to the stage, mounting the stairs to the top of the dark wooden platform. Rae gives me a quick smile, which I return proudly. She grabs my hand and raises it in the air, burbling, "Your tribute, Rosita Lockhart, everybody!"

The cheers are wild from the girls' section. _Of course_, I tell myself. Half the girls from the district want my job. But at least I got a nice career into my life before I was reaped.

I make a mental note to wash my hands as soon as I get offstage.

You never know what kind of filth might've been on Rae's hands.

* * *

><p><strong>Ranen Hollock, 12. District 8<strong>

I watch the female tribute with fascination. She is showing little to no emotion; in fact, she even looks a bit smug.

Meira raises her eyebrows from beside me; she's not too impressed either. I glance back at the stage, and see that Rae, our escort, is walking confidently over to the males' glass orb, picking one with a grin that shows just how much she loves sending kids to their deaths.

Her mouth moves in a swift open-and-close fashion, making short work of the name she announces.

_Ranen Hollock._

I cannot breathe. This can't be happening. I did _not_ just get reaped, not on my first year!

Meira grips my hand in fear, trying to keep me from walking away, but knowing that her actions will eventually be futile. My own knees go weak for a moment, and as I walk slowly to the stage, my hands are shaking uncontrollably. I try to quell my fear and the inevitable helplessness that I feel, knowing that I won't have my twin to guide me through life anymore. Rae smiles at me happily, a shark's grin filled with the promise of my imminent death during these Games.

She asks me if I'm okay. Unable to find the concentration to even attempt to talk, I merely nod, watching dumbly as Rae beckons Rosita over and raises our hands in the air. I can tell by looking at her lips that she is announcing our names, proclaiming our identities to District 8 and all of Panem.

I can't hear the cheers and applause, though.

The blackness enshrouds all feeling, making me just watch as fellow human beings applaud my death. For once, I'm glad I can't hear.

Being deaf blocks out the sounds of bloodlust.

* * *

><p><strong>Rosita Lockhart, 17. District 8<strong>

There's something different about the young tribute that sits beside me in the plush chairs of the Capitol train. I look him over, taking in his well-groomed brown hair and worried, pale gray eyes. All I see is fear there. So it must be something else.

"Ranen," I call quietly, trying not to startle him.

He does not respond, just glances out the window sadly and rubs his thumb over and over across the surface of the leather band that is secured around his wrist. It's a gift from his twin sister.

I reach over and tap his shoulder. "Ranen!" I repeat more urgently. He jumps in surprise and looks at me with these wide, baby-animal eyes that are full of childlike innocence.

"What?" he asks, but the sound of his voice is rough with disuse, and he forms the single syllable oddly, as if it's unfamiliar to him.

I know now.

"You're deaf, aren't you?" I ask, dumbfounded. A deaf district partner! This is the worst luck I've ever had!

He nods grimly. For a moment, I feel sorry for him. But the feeling disperses as I slather my hands with the germ-killing sanitizer that I got from Violet in the Justice Building.

Well, at least that's one less enemy to worry about.


	11. Sponsor Points

**Okay, brief interruption. I just wanted to, you know, keep you guys up to date on what's going on in the story. And I'll post a new spoiler every time I update.**

**Here are the tribute points as they stand thus far (I will update this page constantly):**

Colakis Maphen: 7 points

Zella Dempsey: 1 point

Trevor Gilman: 3 points

Mallory Jewel: 1 point

Erik Wells: 1 point

Karin Litt: 4 points

David J. Martin Wilson: 1 point

Scout Rosewell: 7 points

Kylar Okray: 3 points

Xienna Rider: 2 points

Guire Davids: 7 points

Haley Francis Donner: 1 point

James Wood: 1 point

Sage Smith: 1 point

Rosita Lockhart: 3 points

Zale Tatum: 6 points

Jaylin Brooke Adams: 7 points

Fergus McKlain: 2 points

Doe Jhonson: 1 point

Tarragon Tempest: 1 point

Kia Beckford: 9 points

Aramind Fallius: 1 point

Allegra Mariel: 0 points

**Yeah, so those are the standings thus far. Remember to PM/review with ideas for mutts and Gamemaker traps!**

**I'm writing the alliances right now; if you have any particular tributes that you want your tribute to ally with, now is the time to tell me.**

* * *

><p><strong>*ALERT!*<strong>

***SPOILER ALERT! I WILL GIVE AWAY INFORMATION ABOUT THE ARENA, SO IF YOU DON'T WANT TO KNOW, DON'T READ!**

* * *

><p><strong>1. Be prepared for sand, rock, and metal. Hot, cold, and echoey. And tons of surprises. A tribute will change in a way that could change the fate of the Games this year...<strong>

**2. The changed tribute will be modified to be the...literal...top dog. So to speak.**


	12. District 9 Reapings

**Zale Tatum, 13. District 9**

The three of them gather around me, calling words of hate and mockery.

"Weird kid!"

"Brain boy!"

"You wouldn't last a minute in the Hunger Games!"

I try to push away, but the biggest boy, Larson, holds me by my shoulders and pushes me backwards. "Not so fast, brain kid!" he laughs harshly. "We're not done with you yet."

"Stop," I mutter, trying to shrug off Larson's big, meaty hands. When the other two bullies laugh mockingly at my display of futile bravery, Larson just grins cruelly. He raises a hand to hit me in the gut, but just as his fist is about to hit me, a defiant shout breaks through the bullies' taunting.

"He said stop!"

We all look around to see Sara, the only other bullied kid in our age group and my only friend, standing firmly behind us. Her long blonde ringlets billow in the warm summer breeze, nearly making her seem like my guardian angel. She might as well be, since she's helped me this much. "You heard me," she states sternly.

Larson smirks and pushes me away, letting me stumble towards Sara. "Have fun with your loser boyfriend!" he jeers before loping off with his friends.

As soon as they're gone, I feel around on the ground for my glasses, which were knocked off my face when I was pushed away from Larson. Sara bends down and finds them immediately, gently pressing the crooked frames onto my face. "You really need to get new ones," she chides gently.

"Yeah," I mutter, getting up from the dusty ground of the alleyway. "What time is it?" I ask her quietly, walking with her onto the main street of District 9.

She checks her watch. "Almost two."

"Time to get to the reapings?" I ask, dreading the answer.

Sara grimaces. "Unfortunately." She looks at me with a skeptical, raised eyebrow. "Excited?"

I bark out a short laugh. "Anywhere's better than here, Sara."

* * *

><p><strong>Jaylin Brooke Adams, 16. District 9<strong>

I finish combing out my long, layered caramel-colored hair just before 1:30. I slip into a simple yellow dress that my mother made herself and step into my white flats. "Mother!" I call through the hallways of my house. "I'm ready to go!"

My mother, Rosa, emerges from the kitchen with a loaf of fresh bread in her hands. "Okay," she smiles hurriedly. "Just get back soon, okay, dear?"

"Yes, mother," I groan good-naturedly, hearing the knock on the front door. I walk to the door and open it, seeing my best friend, Lisa, standing there. "Mother, Lisa's here!" I call over my shoulder. "The two of us are going to go to the reapings now!"

"Wait!" My mother rushes out of the kitchen and into the entryway, shoving two small hands into mine. "Take your brother and sister!"

Of course.

I walk to the center of the town square, swinging my siblings' hands in mine. Seven-year-old Kevin hangs on my right hand and five-year-old Lilly skips along to my left. Lisa walks along beside us, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder. "You excited?" she asks me.

I laugh humorlessly. "Nobody is excited for the reapings, Lisa!"

"True," she agrees.

The people of District 9 are congregating in the center of our community. I pull Kevin and Lilly into the mob with me, picking them both up to keep them from getting trampled. We manage to get up towards the front of the crowd, nearly right in front of the stage. Lisa jostles some people out of her way and comes to stand beside me.

Our escort, Werque Meltrak, ascends the stage, accompanied by a fanfare of Panem's anthem. I can see that the cameras are focused on his thin, narrow face, tattooed with dark red lines that accentuate his prominent bones. "District 9!" he calls. "The time has come to select the two most courageous of this...fine...district and send them off to the 32nd Hunger Games, where they will fight for glory in an epic battle to the death!" He surveys the crowd for a moment before he beckons with an arrogant wave of his hand. Two Avoxes emerge from the Justice Building, carrying a massive glass orb. They kneel down in front of Werque, bearing the orb on their backs. I feel a pang of sympathy for them; District 9 is extremely well-populated, so there has to be a bigger orb to hold our names.

"Who d'you think he'll pick?" Lisa whispers in my ear, her eyes fixated on the stage. I contemplate a moment before jokingly whispering,

"You!"

Lisa playfully hits my arm, nearly making me drop Kevin. "Shut up!" she giggles.

Werque dips his hand into the orb and removes a single, golden-beige card. He opens it and announces, "Your District 9 female tribute is Lisa Grainier!"

Lisa gasps and claps a hand to her mouth; I can immediately see tears springing up in her eyes. She gives me a shocked, miserable look before she breaks away from me and begins to walk to the stage. I am dumbstruck. Lisa wouldn't survive a minute in the Hunger Games! At least _I_ have some sort of chance! I have to save my friend!

Before I can even second-guess myself, I'm already stepping forward, putting my siblings down, and yelling, "I volunteer!"

The crowd falls into a hush. It's been years since a tribute has volunteered in District 9. I can hear Lisa whispering, "No," but I'm brushing past her, beyond a state of conscious thought. I had to protect her. She's like a sister to me, and I had to do it.

Werque, apparently regaining his composure, beckons me. "Well, come on, then!" he urges, and I walk up the stairs with leaden feet, flanked by Peacekeepers. "What's your name?" he asks me, pulling the microphone towards me.

"Jaylin...Jaylin Brooke Adams."

"Splendid!"

* * *

><p><strong>Zale Tatum, 13. District 9<strong>

This is a first, at least in my lifetime. A volunteer for the Hunger Games! Who would've thought?

"I feel so bad for her and her family," Sara whispers in my ear. I nod, glancing at her in surprise. I know that she hates the Games, and she never talks during the reapings. "What?" she asks, questioning my stare.

"Nothing," I mutter.

She snorts. "Sure, Zale. Like anything you ever do is 'nothing' at all."

Werque waves his hand onstage, dismissing the first pair of Avoxes and beckoning another, this time bearing the smaller males' orb. "Your District 9 male tribute is...Zale Tatum!"

I hear the sharp intake of breath from Sara, who squeezes my hand before letting me go to the aisle and walk to the stage. As I mount the platform, I am scared. Hell, I'm _terrified_, but I'm not worried. Other than Sara, there's not really anybody who'll ever miss me, so nobody will care if I die. Who would care about the scrawny, curly-haired, green-eyed outcast with the broken glasses?

Oh, right.

Nobody.

Wonderful.

Our tattooed escort raises my and Jaylin's hands in the air, laughing happily. "Ladies and gentlemen, here are your tributes, Jaylin Brooke Adams and Zale Tatum!"

The crowd cheers politely, for Jaylin's sacrifice...and the fact that I'll be gone.

Thanks for the sendoff, District 9.

I love it when people are excited for me to die.

* * *

><p><strong>Jaylin Brooke Adams, 16. District 9<strong>

I sit on the plush cushions of the train, nervously playing with my token. It's a small white topaz on a thin silver chain. I found it in a field when I was nine, and Lilly made sure to give it to me.

It was hard saying goodbye.

But is it ever truly easy?

* * *

><p><strong>Zale Tatum, 13. District 9<strong>

I twist the ring around my right ring finger. It's a plain iron band, just a memento to remember Sara by.

She was the only one to see me off. Not even my parents came to say goodbye.

Well, that's a brilliant sendoff for your only son.

I'll be glad to die.

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry for the late update, guys!<strong>


	13. District 10 Reapings

**Fergus McKlain, 12. District 10**

I squint against the sun that glares _just_ into my eyes, blinding me with its intensity. There are two silhouettes that stand by the window, laughing happily as I groan and sit up, trying to rub the light from my eyes.

"Fergus!" one of the silhouettes singsongs, and I squint in annoyance.

I frown. "Hey, Diana." I glance at the other, taller black mass by the window. "Hey, James."

They step out of the light and sit on my bed, their eyes smiling. Diana tosses back her long brown tresses and grins. "So, Fergus. It's reaping day, the first one of our wonderfully miserable lives!" she chatters, rolling her eyes sarcastically at the prospect of our possible deaths.

"Diana, nobody wants to go to the Hunger Games!" James scoffs. I share an amused glance with Diana. James has never exactly been the sharpest tool in the shed.

I hop out of the bed and pull a pair of ironed black slacks onto my legs, rummaging through my closet for a clean shirt. "James," I sigh as I grab a powder blue collared shirt, "we were joking. We're not honestly excited about possibly dying. I, for one, have something to live for." And it's true. I live for rebellion against the Capitol. My mother came from a far-off country that she calls Scotland, but she moved here to Panem because her family had died in a mass epidemic. She met my father in the underground tunnels of District 13, where I lived for 8 years before we moved here to 10. I haven't told Diana or James about my past, but they know that there's something up with me.

My mother, Bridget, pokes her head into my room, smiling warmly in greeting to Diana and James. "Fergus, dear," she tells me in that Scottish lilt that is still prevalent in her voice. "The reapings are soon, and the three of you had better get going." She frowns and walks into my room, reaching her hands out to fix up my short blonde hair. "Young man, you need to take care of your appearance!" she scolds.

I shrug her off. "Mother, it's fine." I beckon to my friends and we leave my room, smiling in brief farewell to my sisters and father. "We're off to the reapings!" I announce as we leave.

The three of us walk in silence for a while, just taking in the familiar scents of hay and animals that constantly pervade even the most developed part of District 10. Then Diana asks,

"Do you think we'd survive?"

I glance at her in surprise. "In the Hunger Games?"

She nods.

James solemnly says, "Not a chance."

* * *

><p><strong>Doe Jhonson, 14. District 10<strong>

I brush out my shoulder-length red hair, feeling impossibly foolish as I admire how the midday sunlight sparkles through the strawberry strands. My fingers deftly flick through my hair, separating it into three different ropes which I braid together, tying the hairstyle with a string of rawhide. I take a cursory glance at my green eyes before I stand up and replace my brown robe with a simple black dress. I accompany the knee-length garment with simple black shoes.

My father, Chord, knocks on my door. "Doe? Are you almost ready to go?"

I take a final glance at the mirror, then I open my bedroom door to see my father standing there with his hands behind his back, rocking back and forth on his feet. "Ready!" I chirp, grabbing hold of my father's arm and dragging him to the kitchen. He follows without complaint, and I can feel his smile on me, even though I am not facing him. "I've got to get going," I murmur, reaching over the counter to give my mother a farewell kiss, and I do the same for my father. "Bye," I tell them before I slip out the front door and into the streets of District 10.

I am immediately swept up by the surging crowd, which jostles its way to the main square of the district. With no friends to anchor myself to, I am helpless against the swarm and have no choice but to follow the tracks of my fellow citizens and enter the square, staring up at the black, straw-clad Justice Building. I see our escort, Boe Gratin, waddling onto the stage in a hideous mottled gray jumpsuit that does nothing to help the fact that she is fatter than the pigs we raise for bacon. "District 10!" she calls into a microphone, amplifying her squeaky tones into the ears of us all. "It's time for the event of the year!"

There is a smattering of bored applause. Boe takes no notice. "Bring in the female reaping ball!" she orders, and two dark-haired Avoxes mount the platform, bearing a crystalline orb that shines smokily. They hold the massive ball in front of Boe, who plunges her stubby hand into the sea of cards, drawing a single one out with a flourish.

"Your District 10 female tribute is...Doe Jhonson!"

The world freezes. I am held in place by the paralyzing fear, the terror the permeates my very being. I can see two armed Peacekeepers approaching me, but I still cannot move my limbs. The two men grab my arms, but the second I am moved, I throw up everything that is in my stomach, doubling over from the stabbing pains in my stomach. The crowd around me draws back with cries of disgust, and I can't help but agree with them. I'm pathetic.

The Peacekeepers reach for me, picking me up underneath my arms and carrying me to the stage. I let them, allowing my feet to drag on the floor. Boe puts on a strained smile, beckoning another Avox to wipe my face with a silken hankerchief. "Well," she comments breathily. "That was something, wasn't it, District 10?"

I snort in amusement, ignoring the bile that rises and stings my throat. This was something, indeed.

* * *

><p><strong>Fergus McKlain, 12. District 10<strong>

I feel sorry for Doe. I've heard about her, what with her being the awkward outcast of the district and all. But Boe is waving in another set of Avoxes, this time with rich auburn hair. They bear the male reaping ball in their hands.

"The male tribute for District 10 is...Fergus McKlain!"

A stab of fear rips through me, for a moment making me flinch as I walk forward to the stage, feeling the flutterings of rising anxiety in my stomach. I hear the crowd groan in annoyance, and I know that they assume that I'm a weakling because of my small stature. What they don't know is that I spent most of my life learning how to use spears in District 13, and that I've grown up as a hardened warrior.

They'll see.

As I ascend the stage, I catch sight of my family, standing at the back of the crowd. Even from my far-off vantage point, I can see the silent tears that roll down their cheeks.

Boe grabs my hand and Doe's, raising them in triumph. "Ladies and gentlemen of Panem, here are your District 10 tributes! Doe Jhonson and Fergus McKlain, everybody!"

The crowd cheers halfheartedly, sensing that we don't have much of a chance in the Games.

I can't help but agree.

* * *

><p><strong>Doe Jhonson, 14. District 10<strong>

The world is still spinning around me, but maybe it's just my nerves. Or the train. Or both. It's all a blur to me, to be honest.

I turn my hand around and around, shifting the golden charm bracelet that encircles my wrist. There's a small disc at every few links of the bracelet, with a thin golden square in between.

Fergus has his eyes closed across the aisle from me, and I can see both of his thumbs stroking a small _something_ in his hands.

At least he had friends to say goodbye to.

* * *

><p><strong>Fergus McKlain, 12. District 10<strong>

I look down at the familiar, colored faces of Diana, James, and me. I recognize the event, and our expressions tell a story. This photo was taken on my birthday, just a month ago. My parents had treated the three of us, letting us go to one of the few restaurants in all of Panem.

We were making goofy faces then, just joking about the Games and how I might die because I'd just turned 12.

How ironic.

But it's a beautiful thing to have, and I'll keep this photo until the day I die.


	14. District 11 Reapings

**Hey, guys, so I kind of fell off the wagon in terms of sponsor points. I realized that they'll probably have little to no effect on the story, because I've already planned some deaths, and I'll essentially write the Games as I go, just killing people off. I don't even have a winner chosen. Whoops.**

**Well, I'd just like you to know that, throughout the course of the Games, you can still ask for stuff to be sent to your tribute via parachute. That's when I'll check to see how much you've been reviewing, and then with those results, I'll probably find something to give to your tribute. So that's the plan.**

**Sorry for all of the late updates! I'm going to try to write all of the reapings this weekend and then jump straight to the chariot rides. That's the plan so far with that, so we can get to the Games as soon as humanly possible. Keep on reviewing and Happy St. Patrick's Day!**

* * *

><p><strong>Kia Beckford, 16. District 11<strong>

"And that's...ten!" my sister, Riley, exclaims. She sweeps the coins into our sackcloth coin purse, adding the ten of them to the already jingling mass. "At this rate, we'll have everything we need by this winter, and then we can send Dad off to the Capitol to be cured!"

I smile, shaking the bag and marveling at the clinks that I hear from within. My fraternal twin sister Riley, our best friend Sophie, and I have been making and selling garments and harvesting sacks for about a year now. We've been saving up to send our father, Austin, to a rehabilitation center in the Capitol where he can overcome his morphling addiction. Our friend, Trent, has been selling our wares for us, collecting the money from shady orchard owners and people who are utterly inept at making their own clothing. We can't sell them ourselves because we are too recognizable, and too easy to point out to the Peacekeepers.

I have pale skin that stands out like a sore thumb among the dark-skinned natives of District 11. My hair is short, pale brown, and has choppy side bangs. Riley has long, dark brown locks that tumble to her shoulder blades. We're too different, and Trent has dark skin, so he sells everything for us. Of course, we give him some of the profits.

"Isn't it almost two?" I ask absently, walking to the trunk next to our bed that holds all of my clothes.

Riley glances at the clock and nods. "Yeah, it's one-thirty. We should get ready, or the Peacekeepers will come in and drag us there by our hair!" She giggles humorlessly and digs into her own trunk and pulls out a short brown dress, one of our own. She shucks her normal pants and shirt and slips into the dress, walking to the mirror to brush out her hair.

"Can't wait," I mutter darkly, pulling out a white dress with a black cardigan to go with it. After I put it on, I decide that hairbrushes would do nothing for my layered, mid-neck-length hair and just run my fingers through the strands, eliminating any knots that would've found their way in there. "Come on!" I tell Riley. "Aria is probably waiting in the kitchen for us, and we still have Trent and Sophie to meet up with!"

Riley gives a final brushing to her hair and stands up, slipping on black shoes and a black belt. I put on black shoes too, then I leave mine and Riley's room, hoping that Riley is actually following. We pass through the cramped rooms of our home, ignoring the empty bags that used to hold morphling, and find our 10-year-old sister, Aria, sitting next to my mother on the couch in the den. Our mother, Tara, looks up sharply.

"Get going, then!" she orders. "And don't take Aria; she has no need to go."

I nod, biting my lip sadly. Our mother actually used to be fun before our father became an addict. "Yes, Mother," I say obediently, grabbing Riley's hand and dragging her away from the den. I know that it'd be suicidal to stay any longer.

* * *

><p><strong>Tarragon Tempest, 15. District 11<strong>

I hear another crash from down the hall in the community home, and I have the feeling that one of the kids is going to get whipped for dropping that cookpot. Of course, that's completely normal here.

All alone, I slip out the crooked front door and escape the confines of the community home, running from the slums of District 11. I pass the apple orchards, and then the vegetable fields. All people in the groves and plots are gone, obviously over at the reapings. I decide to follow along the path, consenting to join my fellow citizens on the way to my possible death.

The sky is cloudy today, casting a gloomy atmosphere across the normally sunny fields of District 11. I jog through the streets at a moderate pace, shouldering past a few other stragglers that hurry towards the main square. By the time I get to the main square, our escort, Messor Filiorum, has already told the story of Panem, the rebellion, and the Hunger Games. "Time for the reapings!" he announces in a cold, quiet voice that still manages to resound all about the square, rebounding off the pristine facade of the Justice Building.

I manage to worm my way into the crowd of other 15-year-olds before Messor ushers in the Peacekeepers that push a long, wheeled table over to the forefront of the platform. It bears two bright silver orbs that I know contain the names of every person of the ages of 12 to 18. You just have to love reaping day.

Messor picks a small green card out of the left orb and holds it up for all to see before he holds it up to his eyes. "Your female tribute is Kia Beckford!" he announces, a brief light of manic glee dancing in his eyes as he catches sight of a tall, brown-haired girl breaking out of the crowd. As she passes me, I see that her skin is as pale as an ear of corn that isn't close to being ripe. Her eyes, almond-shaped and hazel, are defiant, and I see a golden tattoo on the side of her left hand as she pushes a strand of hair from her face. She ascends the stage, and Messor asks, "Well? Quite the excitement, isn't it?"

"I suppose," Kia answers in a defiant, quiet voice with her eyes cast downwards at her feet.

"That's nice." Messor picks out a card from the boys' orb and waves it in the air. "Your male tribute for District 11 is...Ignavus Puer!"

I am surprised. It's one of the boys from my community home, and as he goes to walk to the stage, his nose sniffling, I realize that I can't let him go off to the Games. He's a sniveling 12-year-old, for crying out loud! Before I know what I'm doing, I'm stepping forward and yelling, "I volunteer in his place!"

The crowd cranes their necks to catch a glimpse of me as I step out of the group of 15-year-olds, push past the dumbfounded Peacekeepers, and nudge Ignavus back into his group of friends. I walk up the steps to the stage and shake hands with a mildly surprised Messor. "I'm Tarragon Tempest," I tell him.

Our escort reaches out to each of us, and Kia and I take his hands. He raises them in the air. "Your tributes for the 32nd annual Hunger Games, Kia Beckford and Tarragon Tempest!"

* * *

><p><strong>Kia Beckford, 16. District 11<strong>

I hold my token in my hands, turning it over and over in my hands. It's a large, circular silver locket on a thin, fine chain. I open it again, probably for the umpteenth time. On the left side is a picture of Riley and Aria, their arms around each other. Their faces are laughing, telling a story of the good times before our father's addiction began. On the other half of the locket is a picture of my best friends, Trent and Sophie, their white smiles standing out against their dark skin.

When Riley gave it to me, she told me, "I took it from Mother, years back. I just put these pictures over the old ones. These will stay at your heart until you come back to us."

I slip the chain over my head, letting the metal settle around my neck. And Riley was right; the locket rests just next to my heart, chilling my skin with its metallic surface. But I feel it steadily growing warmer, adjusting to my body heat slowly.

It'll stay by my heart forever.

* * *

><p><strong>Tarragon Tempest, 15. District 11<strong>

Kia is smiling, looking down at the chain around her neck. I ask, "What's so good about going to the Hunger Games that has the ability to make you so...happy?"

She meets my eyes tearfully, and I can barely hear her over the rumble and whine of the train. "I guess...I guess there's always the hope that I'll win and be able to use the money to send my father off to rehabilitation and to give everybody better lives."

I smile grimly at her. "You're lucky, sweetheart," I drawl. "At least you've got somebody to live for."


	15. District 12 Reapings

**Aramind Fallius, 17. District 12**

I furtively dart out of the shack that I share with my father, making sure to grab his large pickaxe from the door. I emerge into the shadowy, cramped cluster of other ramshackle, coal-stained buildings that are all too common here in the Seam. I close the creaking door behind myself, trotting a little ways out towards the large rock that is secluded in the shadows, where a few trees shelter it from sight. I look down at the rock, hefting the pickaxe and glaring down at the lump of granite that stands there.

I've been chipping away at it for years. It's been my project, carving this massive ram and freeing its shape from the coal-dust-stained rock. Over these years, I've slowly grown to know every notch and groove in my father's pickaxe. I'll know whenever he's chipped the blade while mining one day, and it gives me a sort of sick pleasure, knowing that the coal has done this to my father.

It's punishing him for letting my family die.

My mother and sister died last year of starvation, which is not at all uncommon in District 12. It was a slow death for them, watching my beautiful mother shrink to skin and bones and feeling how light my baby sister was getting, seeing her infant body lose all of its round curves.

I know that I have to go to the reapings soon; the sun is rising higher in the sky. I take a few swings at the tail end of my ram, trying to eliminate a massive lump right where a joint should be. Before long, I hear the rest of District 12 leaving their sad excuses for homes and heading to the center of the district. I brush off the granite chippings from the carving and head back to my home, leaving the pickaxe where it should be before I head to my room, pulling on an old suit of my father's.

When I leave my room, my father, Maratin, is sitting at our worn breakfast table, picking at a small plate of a few pathetically small radishes. He looks up with dark circles underneath his eyes. "You look good," he rasps. "Any special occasion?"

"Reapings," I mutter, plucking one of the radishes from his plate and popping it into my mouth before I leave the shack once more. "I'll see you later."

That's all it's ever been since they died. Sentence, reply. Conversation over.

Honestly, I can't complain.

* * *

><p><strong>Allegra Mariel, 17. District 12<strong>

Grace, my best friend, sits behind me in front of the cracked mirror. She picks up the carved wooden comb and runs it through my straight, ebony hair, untangling the night's stresses. "You need to keep it nice and straight like this," she informs me quietly.

"Why? We live in the poorest part of Panem. What would nice hair do to prevent impending starvation?" I reply boredly. "It's not like the reapings are every day."

"True," Grace murmurs. "But you look good like this, all dressed up...you look like nothing bad ever happened to you."

I wish. My parents died when I was 13, leaving me with my younger brother, Ryan. I've been signing up for the tesserae since then, just trying to make it in the world. I've been lucky not to have been reaped already, what with how many times my name has been entered. "Well, I suppose that life can't get any worse, right?" I ask flatly.

Grace replies, "Lighten up, Allegra!" she grumbles, slipping a pale green headband into my newly brushed hair. "This complements your eyes perfectly," she tells me, tapping her finger next to my jade eyes.

I nod absently, getting up from my knees and picking up my one and only dress. It's getting a bit threadbare, but the green, knee-length garment will suffice for the reapings today. I slip it on quietly, glancing over at Grace over my shoulder. "I can't be reaped," I tell her. "I can't leave Ryan to survive on his own here."

My best friend frowns sadly. "It can't be helped if you get reaped. It's not likely, anyway. There are tons of girls with tesserae."

"But actually...not really," I counter.

Grace just sighs and grabs my hand. "Let's just go," she groans, dragging me through the ratty curtain to the main area of our house. My 14-year-old brother, Ryan, looks up with weary hazel eyes. He's wearing one of our father's old suits.

"Hey," he smiles. He stands up, towering over me with his annoying height. "Time to go?"

"Yeah," I mutter. "Joyous day."

By the time we get to the main square, the Peacekeepers have already ushered the rest of the children into those neat rows that I hate so much. As soon as they catch sight of us, two Peacekeepers run up and grab Ryan, pulling him away and ushering him to his age group. Another one escorts Grace and me to the 17-year-old girls' section.

"It's a big day, District 12!" I crane my head and see the familiar, curvy blond figure clad in and acid green dress. It's Rina Trinket, our peppy Capitol escort. She smiles toothily and begins to give the speech about the history of Panem. I decide to tune out the conversation, just waiting until Rina walks up to the right of the stage. "Ladies and gentlemen of District 12, here is the name of your female tribute!" She picks out a black card and opens it, reading the name hungrily to herself. Then she looks up; her red lips quirk up in a smile. "Here we are...Allegra Mariel!"

* * *

><p><strong>Aramind Fallius, 17. District 12<strong>

I see a cold-eyed, dark-haired girl step out of the females' ranks. She walks up to the stage with a cool, collected confidence that I didn't know existed here in District 12. She ignores Rina's extended hand, glancing disdainfully at it like it is one of the rats that shows up everywhere in the Seam.

I can't help but admire her daring. She's obviously gotten a strategy together already.

Rina crosses the stage to the males' orb. She draws another black card, identical to the last one. "We have your District 12 male tribute!"

My best friend, Eli Williams, rolls his eyes and snorts, "How exciting." I glance at him with a bark of nearly silent laughter.

"Aramind Fallius!" Rina calls.

I whip my head away from Eli, staring up at the platform. I point to my chest and raise my eyebrows. "Me?" I ask.

Rina titters. "Is your name Aramind?"

"Yes," I answer, still barely able to comprehend what is going on.

"Then come on up!" she giggles.

I walk as if I'm in a dream. Its lucidity surprises me, and I wonder if I'll wake up. _Pinch me_, I think to myself.

Honestly, I hope that this is just a nightmare.

* * *

><p><strong>Allegra Mariel, 17. District 12<strong>

I glance over at my district partner, trying to assess him. He's honestly not that strong or fierce-looking, and he has wide blue eyes that make him look like a small animal left out in the rain. His skin is dusky and his angular face is framed by slightly overgrown brown hair.

"What do you do?" I ask him, twisting the black ring that encircles my finger. "I mean, weapon or abilities type of doing."

He looks ponderous for a moment, and then his face brightens. "I use a pickaxe wonderfully. So anything that is sharp and I can swing is pretty much for me."

"That's good." I assess him, for the first time noticing the defined arm muscles underneath his brand new Capitol shirt.

This boy could be an asset.

* * *

><p><strong>Aramind Fallius, 17. District 12<strong>

I turn away from Allegra and touch the cat pendant on my mother's necklace. It was a gift from my father.

When Rina comes into our train car, beckoning us to dinner, I try not to eat too much, knowing that I'll probably throw it all up anyways.

So I listen to Rina going on and on about her newborn daughter, Effie, who she hopes will carry on the profession of reaping children for the Hunger Games. It's a disgusting thing to think about, raising a child to send children off to their deaths.

So I exchange glances with Allegra, tuning out Rina while trying to divert the attention to our mentor, Hylla Tranion, who has glittering, warm eyes that promise friendship but also the prospect of rigorous training.

I will train. I will work hard.

I will win.


	16. Chariot Rides

**Okay, guys, here's the chariot rides! Essentially, this is the beginning of some alliances and also just a description of outfits. It took forever to write, seeing as I had to formulate a LOT of outfits. Next update might not be for a while (the stupid school week is starting again) but here's a nice long chapter to hold you off till the next one!**

* * *

><p><strong>Colakis Maphen, 18. District 1<strong>

I'm in a massive glass elevator with two girls and a guy. The guy is obviously from District 4; I can tell that much from his tanned skin and tousled, raven-black hair. One of the girls is wearing an elaborate outfit of armor, and I can tell that she's from 2. The other girl is around my age, with piercing, analytic emerald eyes.

I examine their bright, fierce expressions, even the one girl who looks to be only 12 years old. I hold my hand out to them. "I'm Colakis Maphen, from District 1."

The older girl with the green eyes takes my hand first, shaking it but then quickly applying some lotion to her hand as soon as we release the shake. "I'm Rosita Lockhart from 8," she tells me, tossing her head to shake back a strand of dark brown hair. She raises a manicured eyebrow elegantly. "You're a Career, I suppose?"

"Yes," I answer. "I'm looking for others."

Rosita smiles, showing straight white teeth. "May I join you?" she asks.

"What do you do?" I ask warily. "You're not from a Career district."

"I can poison people, and I'm amazing at stealth. From what I can see of you-" she gives me a squick sweep with her eyes, "-you're not exactly the right build for sneaking about." She sticks out her hand again. "You'll see more of me during training. Are you in?"

I shake her hand. "We're in."

The other girl, an innocent-looking blonde with fierce blue eyes and archaic armor, says, "I'm Mallory Jewel from 2. I can use knives, swords, and a bow and arrows. I know I'm small, but I know how to kill and do it painfully."

I give her one of my most charming smiles, meaning it for once. This girl is young and full of ambition; I can't help but admire the courage that it must've taken her to volunteer for this at such a young age. "I think you'd be awesome as one of us."

"And me?"

I look over at the boy, who's leaning against the wall of the elevator with a bored expression on his handsome face. "And you are...?" I ask.

He half-grins, half-smirks. "I'm David J. Martin Wilson. 4." He mimes throwing. "I use stuff like spears, tridents, rocks, knots...the usual District 4 stuff."

"Yeah, I think you're good," I tell him, reaching out to shake his hand. He doesn't take it.

I guess you just have to love Careers.

* * *

><p><strong>Zale Tatum, 13. District 9<strong>

This is it. I straighten my brand-new glasses self-consciously and walk to the elevator with the intention of just going down the the lobby and getting this over with. However, my plan is immediately ruined as soon as I walk into the glass tube. The girl from District 11 is standing nervously towards the back of the elevator. She looks up when I enter, and she smiles warmly at me.

"I'm Kia," she tells me. "I'm 16."

I'm barely able to speak. This girl, Kia, is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. Her skin is uncharacteristically pale for her District 11 origins, and she has pale brown hair that has been allowed to fall in shimmering layers to hang just above her shoulders. She's wearing a pale green Greek chiton that reaches to the floor, and green and red apples have been painted onto her bare arms. In her hair, a wreath of leaves and apples encircles her head and melds with her hair perfectly. There's a gap in the garment she wears that shows a tattoo of a flock of small eagles on her right hip, and on the side of her left hand, there's an equality sign inked onto her skin in gold.

Finally, I realize that she's waiting for me to speak. "I...I'm Zale. I'm 13." Kia grins at me.

"Are you excited for the chariot ride?" she asks.

I laugh without humor. "Far from it."

Another two people enter the elevator. I turn from Kia's almond-shaped hazel eyes and see that the boy from 11 and the boy from 10 have squeezed in beside us, clad in their own extravagant costumes. Kia's district partner holds out a hand that is dark as black velvet. "I'm Tarragon," he says in a steady voice. "It's good to meet you." I nod, shaking Tarragon's hand, and turn to the other boy, a short blonde 12-year-old with confident, cool green eyes.

"I'm Fergus," he introduces himself, with a hint of a foreign accent that I can't place. I'm impressed. These two boys control themselves well.

"I'm Zale." I look curiously at them, spreading my hands in an inviting gesture. "I was wondering...would you two like to...be in an alliance with me, in the Games?"

Fergus raises his golden eyebrows, and I see that Tarragon is sizing me up as well. Fergus is the first to talk. "What weapons do you use?"

"Knives and my brain," I inform them. "I know how to think."

Tarragon grins sadly, showing bright white teeth. "I'd like to be with you in some sort of alliance, but...I don't think that I'd be able to cope with losing a friend or having to kill them in the end. I'll consider it, but it's probably a no for me; sorry." I nod and glance at Fergus.

"Yeah," he tells me, reaching out a hand to me. I feel the surprising strength in his hand as I shake it. "Yeah, I'll ally with you."

"What do you do?" I ask him.

Fergus just grins wickedly. "I kill. I'm amazing with a spear."

"Perfect," I whisper as our elevator reaches the lobby. We go our separate ways, but not after Fergus and I clap each other on the back and I take one last longing look at Kia, whose pale hair bounces as she walks away with Tarragon.

Envy is a dangerous thing. So is love, too.

This is the Hunger Games, after all.

* * *

><p><strong>Colakis Maphen, 18. District 1<strong>

We are the first ones through the entrance of the Remake Center, pulled along by our snowy white stallions. Our chariot rolls along the main road of the Capitol with ease, carrying Zella and me past the city's cheering inhabitants.

I am wearing a silken suit that is covered in glimmering rubies, diamonds, and topaz, which sparkle in a pattern of rippling swords in a pool of blood. Honestly, I'd had no idea that this is the pattern. I had just put on the suit made by my stylist, Flam. I should have known, though. Flam is a Games-obsessed little man who tattoos all of the arenas onto his body.

Zella is standing beside me and is waving regally to the masses, smiling that sparkling grin of hers. Her silky, dark brown hair has been combed and curled into loose ringlets which fall past her shoulders like a shimmering waterfall. She's clad in a tight dress made from pure white mesh, and it's covered in bright diamonds and crystals. Her hair is covered in them, too. She glances at me and laughs, "Isn't it wonderful?"

I grin back widely, nodding before turning my expression into a smug smirk. I turn my arrogance to the crowd, letting them see what they want to see from a typical District 1 volunteer.

But who says that I'm typical?

* * *

><p><strong>Mallory Jewel, 12. District 2<strong>

I can hear the roar of the crowd as our chariot rolls into the city, pulled by majestic, armor-clad stallions. I am wearing a spectacular bloodred tunic underneath golden armor, which consists of a jeweled breastplate and arm and leg bands of the shimmering metal. My curled blonde hair has been brushed out to fall like liquid sunlight across my shoulders, topped by a golden war helmet with a red plume atop it. I am like the warriors of truly ancient times, from a far-off place called Greece when only the fittest survived to see the sunrise.

Trevor is looking equally stunning. His stylist, Dallian, had offered my partner an option that he couldn't resist. Dallian had Trevor go into surgery, where doctors siphoned nearly all the fat from his body, leaving him toned and lean. Gone is the chubby, food-oriented boy.

Now, the 15-year-old that I've only briefly known is incredibly gorgeous. His dark hair falls over his hazel eyes, casting dangerous shadows over his face. His own outfit showcases a broad chest, only covered by the black tunic that wraps around one shoulder and falls across his chest to end in a more masculine version of the tunic's skirt. Trevor's armor is silver, standing out brilliantly in the fading sunlight.  
>Beside me, with a proud, smug grin on his face, Trevor looks like a god.<p>

We ride together, he and I. The eyes of the Capitol are drawn to us, the shining pair in the archaic metal armor. I hold my head high, offering smiles and waves to the adoring people in the crowd.

Trevor tentatively reaches for my hand and I let him take it. We wave in perfect unison, watching the crowd drink up our attention. I know that Trevor's probably just nervous, but it's good to know that he's willing to take my hand. For now, we're friends.

Until death do us part, I suppose.

* * *

><p><strong>Erik Wells, 17. District 3<strong>

From in front of us, Mallory and the new and improved Trevor ride hand in hand. As Karin and I roll out into the Capitol, I contemplate taking my district partner's hand. I reach for Karin's hand, but she shoots me a death glare that promises all kinds of pain if she gets near me.

I decide not to hold her hand.

She turns away from me to watch the faces of the Capitol citizens as we are pulled by, and I have a chance to look at her. Even though she's short for her age, she still manages to pull of the tight white strapless dress that reaches mid-thigh on her. The fabric is swathed in strings of white, yellow, red, and orange lights. She wears a wreath of bright white lights in her dark hair.

I wear a similar outfit, but it is a tight white jumpsuit that is wreathed in lights in the same fashion as Karin. My dark blonde hair has been gelled and spiked so that it provides mountains and valleys for the wreath of lights in my hair to wrap around.

Our chariot suddenly hits a sharp bump, and we are jolted to the side. In her panic, Karin wildly reaches for my hand, grabbing it to steady herself. I look down at our clasped fingers, slyly grinning at her. She huffs and rolls her eyes at me, and I can tell she wishes that her hand was being held by her friend back in District 3.

She still lets me hold onto her hand, though.

* * *

><p><strong>Scout Rosewell, 16. District 4<strong>

The crowd roars and stomps their feet as our chariot emerges. I feel a thrill of smugness at the fact. District 4 tributes have always had the best looks, with our raven-black hair and bright, exotic eyes. I angle my body, trying to let the light hit my tanned skin perfectly. My body is clad in a sea-blue princess dress that stops mid-thigh. A shimmering silk train, like waves of ocean water, trails behind me and drapes elegantly off the back of the chariot. My black hair has been washed with a diluted blue dye, giving the jet black strands a cerulean sheen. I feel beautiful, like a goddess from the mythical stories of olden times.

David looks equally drop-dead gorgeous, making Capitol women swoon as we ride past them. His short black hair has been spiked into subtle waves, and his muscular chest is bare, save for the locket that rests on his sternum. His entire torso is painted with exotic, ancient languages and blue wave patterns that seem to shimmer like real water in the fading sunlight that leaks through the angular Capitol structures. The rest of his body is clad in dark blue pants and golden sandals.

"David! Scout!" the crowd calls, throwing flowers to us. I smile under the rain of plants, waving and laughing and blowing kisses. I can see that David is doing the same, though, of course, without the kisses.

The world seems to be smiling down on me today. This is my day. I'm going to milk it for all it's worth.

It may be the last good one that I'll ever have.

* * *

><p><strong>Kylar Okray, 16. District 5<strong>

I'm wearing makeup, and I hate it.

There's black eyeliner and black accents all around my eyes, because my stylist, Blaise, thought it would be 'a statement to remember' if all of Panem saw my eyes – one brown, one blue – highlighted in black for the cameras to see. However, I personally disagree. How could the cameras focus on my eyes when my outfit is so extravagant?

Xienna and I are wearing insulated black neck-to-ankle jumpsuits made of this fabric that seems feather-thin and sturdy at the same time. There are fluorescent tubes and copper wires sewn and wrapped all around the suits, the fluorescent glowing eerily in the half-light. Every once in a while, an electrical charge surges through the strong wires, kicking up sparks that make us sparkle like the firecrackers that the Capitol is shooting off as we roll through the streets of the wealthiest city I know.

Xienna's curly, pale brown hair has wires woven into it, as if her hair _is_ the metal strands. The shimmering substance merges and shimmers under the light of our sparks, making us seem like our own individual stars.

And we are like stars. Xienna and I, with our personal suits of impossible electricity, outshine any of the tributes that have emerged from the Training Center so far.

I straighten my back, looking directly into the eyes of the cameras and the crowd, and I hear the awed gasps of approval at the sight of my dramatic eyes.

I guess Blaise was right. It's all in the eyes.

* * *

><p><strong>Haley Francis Donner, 15. District 6<strong>

I am mesmerized by the sparking, electric suits of the tributes from District 5. I look down at my own outfit, which is themed on hovercraft and ancient airplanes, seeing as District 6 is all about transportation. My outfit is a silvery dress that reaches just past my knees, flowing and billowing lightly in the breeze. From my shoulder blades spring two metal wings, angling downward and behind me. I've seen ancient pictures of airplanes in school, and I feel just like that primitive flying machine that soared through the air. My brown hair has been combed into a shimmering, dark sheet that reaches to just above my shoulders. I can't help but appreciate the fact that my hair will not be a problem in the arena, what with the issue of long hair being used to induce pain and hold fleeing girls back.

Guire also is looking amazing. He wears a silver suit that covers a bright blue dress shirt, and he wears metal wings similar to mine. The metal appendages are shot though with gorgeous neon blue that matches his shirt perfectly. Guire looks over at me, offering only a grim scowl at the sight of my bright grin. "What are you smiling about?" he snarls. "Are you actually excited about parading yourself around in preparation for your death?"

I spread my hands in a gesture of surrender. "Hey, no worries. Just...chill."

He gives me a scathing glare before he tosses his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes and stares straight ahead, his jaw set in a tense frown.

"Great. Just great," I mutter as our chariot pulls into the Capitol and we are bombarded by shouts and flowers.

I guess you just have to love district partners.

* * *

><p><strong>James Wood, 17. District 7<strong>

The crowd is roaring its approval as each chariot rolls into the Capitol's darkening streets, carrying the extravagantly clad tributes. I try to hold my head high, or as high as I can hold it before the weight of my headpiece becomes overwhelming.

I'm wearing this wooden carving on my head, a pine block that has been shaped into the image of a bush that has its roots draping down to hang on my forehead and neck. I look down at the rest of my body, which is thankfully not as incredibly humiliating as the headpiece. My chest has been left bare, only covered by leafy vines that drape and twist around my torso. My lower half is clad in some kind of hybrid between pants and shoes, seamlessly connecting the leaf-green fabric of the pants with the attached brown boots.

I glance down at Sage, who looks as good as terrified of the cameras. She scooches closer to me in the chariot, and I keep a firm hand on her bare arm, holding her in place. She looks up at me. "Thanks," she tells me over the overwhelming noises of the Capitol. She's wearing a headpiece like mine that seems to be weighing her down, and I feel bad for her. She's so fragile-looking that the block of wood seems like it could knock her down in a heartbeat. Other than that, she looks stunning in a leafy, floor-length gown that makes her seem like she is an oak sapling, as odd as that sounds.

"You're welcome," I grin at her, and she returns my smile radiantly.

I think I could come to like this Sage girl.

* * *

><p><strong>Rosita Lockhart, 17. District 8<strong>

I watch Ranen watch the crowd. Unable to hear the deafening (no pun intended) cheers, he just wears a halfway bored expression on his face, unperturbed by the situation. His outfit is a spectrum of flame-colored fabric, ranging from coarse wool to cloud-soft silk. The fiery patches of color have been expertly stitched together, forming a suit that seems to leap and jump with tongues of flame. His pale face has been painted lightly with smoky eyeshadow, and the tips of his dark hair have been dyed bright red.

My outfit seems to have come straight out of a fashion disaster. Violet, my boss, is probably watching this right now with a disgusted look on her face. I sure would.

How does a mishmosh of fabrics even _vaguely_ represent the top fashion that District 8 churns out? Yes, we produce textiles and fabrics of all kinds, but throwing some colored patches of different cloth together seems a bit amateurish for the Capitol. I mean, my dress is just a sewn-together mess of silk, cotton, wool, and - God forbid - polyester. It's just a mix of blue, green, yellow, and purple.

Of course. While all the other districts get exciting, innovative costumes of grandeur, I get to look like a bruise.

* * *

><p><strong>Zale Tatum, 13. District 9<strong>

I'm really thankful that my stylist, Iridia, gave me new, black metal glasses. I can actually see the bright, beautiful colors of the Capitol. I am captivated.

My district partner, Jaylin, has had her caramel-colored hair put up in a tight, neat bun that shines like burnished copper. Wheat has been woven into the long strands of her hair, making the tan plant seem like a part of her. She wears a tight, long dress that is covered in layers of grain and oat and wheat, making her rustle with every movement. The hem is rimmed all around by the fluffy ends of wheat plants. I can't help but notice that it makes her seem like an upside-down wheat stalk.

I'm wearing a simple beige suit with slightly darker loafers on my feet. I am, however, wearing a cloak that is like Jaylin's dress and has the grains rustle and snap against one another. To be honest, I'm just thankful that Iridia wasn't too crazy, like some of the other Capitol stylists. The other stylists probably would've made me wear a costume so that I would actually _be_ a grain of wheat!

Jaylin looks over at me with a grin. "Find any allies yet?"

"Yeah," I answer, raising my voice over the crowd's cheers. "His name is Fergus."

"From 10?"

I nod, looking ahead of us at the outfits of District 8. "Yeah," I repeat absently.

Jaylin pats me on the back. "Good luck in there, little Zale."

* * *

><p><strong>Doe Jhonson, 14. District 10<strong>

I am so thankful that my prep team exists.

They cleaned me up so well that I can't seem to find an imperfection anywhere on my body. It's uncanny, the way that the Capitol works.

My red hair has been twisted and pulled into the single most elaborate braid that I've ever seen. My body has been squeezed into a tight, mottled, black-and-white jumpsuit that has a distinctly bovine look to it. At least I don't have a tail. I am wearing shimmering leather knee-high boots which hug my legs nicely, but make me feel as if I'm a stranger in my own skin. On my hands, there are fingerless black leather gloves, matching with the boots and probably symbolizing hooves. In my hair, there's a headband with ebony horns that curve up from my head.

Again, at least I don't have a tail.

I look over at Fergus, who is obviously annoyed at the fact that he looks like a cow. His blonde eyebrows are creased into a frown, drawing together in the middle of his forehead in a stubborn expression. "Enjoying yourself?" I ask him, attempting a bit of light-hearted humor.

He looks over at me with a snort. "Hey," he tells me, "at least I don't have a tail."

I knew that I liked him for a reason.

* * *

><p><strong>Tarragon Tempest, 15. District 11<strong>

I honestly feel ridiculous. Like a little female apple tree that came to life and started prancing about.

In all truth, that's exactly what I look like.

I'm wearing a dark green tunic, and my dark skin has been painted with green and red apples. In my hair, a wreath of leaves and apples lays. I glance over at Kia, who is smiling stupidly. "What's gotten into your head?" I ask her, raising my eyebrows as we roll into the Capitol.

"You know that boy...Zale?" Kia asks, looking at me with some serious emotion in her eyes. She's wearing a similar outfit to mine, only her main garment is a floor-length pale green chiton. "In the elevator...?"

I bark out a laugh. "You know that he's 13, right? And you're...how old? 16?"

"For Panem's sake, Tarragon!" Kia scolds. "I never said that I had a crush on him! I just was about to say that I thought that he was so nice and innocent! And he's clever, which is absolutely key in the Games. You'd be a fool not to ally with him!"

I roll my eyes, plucking a small apple from my wreath and chucking it at her. "I am so glad that I'm not a girl."

* * *

><p><strong>Allegra Mariel, 17. District 12<strong>

We're wearing the typical coal miner's outfits that usually appear in our district's tributes. Though these are a bit more...provocative, I guess.

I look down at my black overalls, which have legs that end just above the knee. Underneath that, I am wearing a bright red shirt that is made of some kind of exotic silk. My feet are clad in tall, lace-up boots that are a shimmering, soft black leather. I feel like royalty, wearing such extravagant clothing, but my crown is instead a red miner's helmet, equipped with a headlamp which, instead of having the traditional yellow bulb, is flickering with flames.

Aramind is wearing a similar outfit, but his overalls only consist of long straps that reach down until his waist, where the actual garment begins. The overalls' legs reach all the way down, but are halfway obscured by my partner's red work boots. His chest is bare, and his helmet tops off his red-tinged brown hair. Both of us have stunning red and black accents on our eyes and lips.

"This is fun," Aramind comments over the roars of the crowd.

I nod. "I guess so," I answer, "if you like being paraded around as a showpiece before you're placed in an arena where you have a 1 in 24 chance of making it out alive."

"So...not fun?" Aramind asks, raising his eyebrows with a hint of humor glimmering in his blue eyes.

"Not fun."

* * *

><p><strong>Okay. Oh, my gosh, that was excruciating to write. Well, here it is. The chariot rides. Yes, I know I only included them coming out of the Remake Center, but I honestly didn't have the heart to write any more of chariot rides. I said what I needed to say. I hope you enjoyed reading it!<strong>

**P.S. Look DOWN!**

* * *

><p><strong>IMPORTANT QUESTION, GUYS! FOR THE INTERVIEWS, WHAT CATCH PHRASEQUOTE WILL YOUR TRIBUTE(S) HAVE? I NEED TO KNOW!**


	17. Interviews Part 1

**I decided to do this backwards, since writer's block was being...writer's block. I think I'll be able to get a better sense of what alliances will be _after_ I write the interviews. So training comes next. So they won't talk about their scores. Those come later. Weird, I know. But I like it like this. It's my Hunger Games, anyway.**

**Beware of a very long, rambling chapter. I split it in half, though, because I've kept you waiting long enough. So the second part hopefully won't be here before long.**

**So sorry for the LATE update, guys! It took me forever to write this, since my internet has been down, and my weekend/week time has been dedicated to shopping for spring break and volunteering and stuff. So this is REALLY late, especially by my standards. I'm so sorry.**

* * *

><p><strong>Colakis Maphen, 18. District 1<strong>

My stylist, Flam, sends me off to the tunnel where I will enter the stage from. He fluffs with my shaggy brown hair for a second, then brushes off any invisible smudges on the gems on my suit. "There!" he trills, pushing me into the tunnel. I look back and see my mentor, Sol, shrugging at me helplessly. She won the Games just a few years ago with her total ruthlessness, and I'm determined not to let her down.

I hear the roar of the elite of the Capitol audience as I walk through the dark tunnel, blinking when the lights blind me as I enter the stage. I look to my right and see all the other 23 tributes emerging from their own tunnels, rubbing their own eyes while trying to remain cool and composed. I raise my eyebrows at the outfits I see. Some tributes are sexy, some are dangerous, and some are just downright stunning.

We sit in plush golden chairs while Caesar makes his entrance, this time dyed bright yellow like sunshine. He turns to the audience and spreads his arms in laughing welcome. "Welcome, welcome, and Happy Hunger Games to you all! Here we are at my favorite part-" on the screen, I see him waggle his eyebrows "-me!" The crowd laughs and I roll my eyes. It's just pathetic how these people just eat up his words. "Well, let's begin the interviews of these a-MA-zing tributes! He turns from the crowd and beckons me up. I stand up and walk to the raised platform where my interview chair sits across from Caesar. I shake hands with him wordlessly, trying to appear as controlled as possible while still remaining friendly. My family at home must be in horror. I'm a Career...acting nice. Oh, well. It can't be helped. "Hello, Colakis Maphen!" Caesar cries enthusiastically.

"Hey, Caesar," I grin. "It's good to be here."

"Excited, I presume?" he asks, raising his sunny eyebrows.

"Of course," I reply.

Caesar looks me up and down. "Well, Colakis, I see that your stylist has done a good job dressing you up, both for the chariots and now."

"Well, yes, he did," I smile, giving a brief wave to Flam, who's waving so hard that he's nearly acting like a windmill, he's so excited to be on camera. And indeed he has done a good job. This time Flam put me into a black suit that's sparsely encrusted in gems of midnight blue and, occasionally, forest green. We have to wait a while for the crowd to quiet down their cheering before continuing.

Caesar slowly drops his wide smile, lowering it into a serious face. "So what's your strategy here?" he asks me, and I can feel the eyes of every tribute boring into my back. I know I have to be honest here.

"I've already found some other allies here. We're going to stick together and take down the competition. After that..." I shrug, leaving it up to the crowd's imagination. They all know that it'll be a fight to the death.

The golden interviewer regains his grin, saying, "Well, Colakis, you seem like a good man."

I grin, letting a trace of that power inside of me show through in my eyes. "I may seem nice here," I warn, "but I volunteered for a reason. Just you wait, and you'll see some real action from this Career!" I turn to the crowd and wink, showing my potential to them just as the buzzer peals through the area.

Caesar stands up. "Well, best of luck in the Games, Colakis!"

I shake his hand and turn away, walking back to my seat to confused applause. I can tell the crowd is torn between my underlying violence and my better nature. Oh, let them think on it. It might give me more sponsors.

* * *

><p><strong>Zella Dempsey, 18. District 1<strong>

I'm intrigued by Colakis. He seems like he'd be a good Career.

I stand up from my own chair, keeping a seductive grin on my face while I glide to the platform in my tight, midnight-black see-through mesh gown. The fabric is amazing; every thread seems to glimmer with stars, apparently because the thread is woven with diamond shavings from refineries. My hair has been curled into loose curls that tumble down my back like an auburn waterfall. The entire effect is dark, dangerous, and incredibly sexy. "Hello, Caesar," I say, smiling softly.

"Hello, Zella Dempsey!" Caesar replies heartily. "Please, sit down!"

I make my way over to the plush interview chair, sitting primly on the edge of the seat. "So, Caesar," I begin before my garishly painted interviewer has a chance to speak, "How is it, being an interviewer?"

Caesar looks perplexed. "Zella, I do believe that _I_-"

I hold up my hand to silence him, curving my lips into a smile. "Please, Caesar, we have a few minutes. To be honest, I don't have much to tell. But _you_..." I trail off and smile towards the dumbfounded audience. "You are entirely interesting, Caesar Flickerman!"

"I guess...it's fine? Very fun to play off the audience and just get to know everybody, I suppose." I am pleased. I've sent Caesar out of his comfort zone, and now the interview's in my hands.

"Well, that's nice, Caesar. Anything you'd like to ask me?"

Caesar straightens his suit uuncomfortably. "Well, Zella, what do you hope to do here in the Games? Any specialties of yours that you'd like to share?"

I toss my hair back with a smile. "Well, I suppose all I can tell you is that I show no mercy. I kill, and I enjoy doing it. That's all there is to say."

The buzzer sounds.

I stand up and shake Caesar's hand. "Thanks for the interview. Happy Hunger Games!"

And I flounce away, making sure that the cameras catch my face. I know that my blue eyes are burning with success and danger and seduction.

Perfect.

I just derailed the most important speech of my life.

And that's just how I want it.

* * *

><p><strong>Mallory Jewel, 12. District 2<strong>

I'm in utter shock. Zella just shook _Caesar Flickerman_ to his roots! At the same time, I'm incredibly impressed. She'll be a valuable ally.

I straighten the folds of my sky-blue, strapless dress nervously as Caesar calls me forward. My stylist, Molatto, did an amazing job on me. My dress only reaches to my knees, and my forearms are covered in silver bands that extend down over the backs of my hands. My feet are clad in soft-soled silver boots. As in, the boots are actual silver. And they reach up, up, up, disappearing under my dress to end in the middle of my thighs. It's an odd feeling, but I just toss my head, feeling my hair tumbling down my back, held in place by a silver headband.

"Hello, Mallory!" Caesar exclaims, his composure regained. "What a beautiful outfit!"

"Thank you!" I gush, pouring on the innocence. I can't have anyone knowing that I'm a killer. "It's all thanks to my stylist, Molatto! He's just so sweet, helping me through all the outfits." I wave cheekily to my rage-red-haired stylist, who gives a subtle wave, while my prep team, Blaise, Aloera, and Vallie all put on identical ridiculous grins and wave wildly.

Caesar turns back to me. "So, Mallory, I hear that you've brought District 2 with you on this Hunger Games. Care to explain?"

Well, this is my moment to make it all worthwhile. I have to lay it on thick. "Well, since my mother won the 4th Hunger Games-" I wait as Caesar's eyes glaze over at the remembrance of the arena that was a mutt-ridden wasteland, "I decided to make her my mentor!" I point out into the City Circle, singling out my mother, who stands by my stylist with her arms crossed over her chest.

"Hello, Narcissa Jewel!" Caesar chuckles. "Long time, no see!"

My mother just smiles and waves the cameras away.

Caesar turns back to me. "Mallory, do you have any strategy for the Games?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," I tell him. I lean in, knowing full well that every word I say will, regardless, be captured on camera. But one can't help but act a bit. "I'm going to be one of the Careers, and I'll make it worth their while to accept me in their group."

"How do you think you'll stand a chance against the other tributes?" Caesar asks me.

I smile sweetly. "Oh Caesar," I answer smugly. "You have no idea how I can surprise you later."

* * *

><p><strong>Trevor Gilman, 15. District 2<strong>

Mallory glides past me with a smug grin on her face. She winks at me and then I get up, walking to where Caesar sits. "Hello, Caesar," I say quietly, trying to remain confident. It's a bit hard not to be, with this outfit that I'm wearing.

I'm wearing a tailored suit of dark wine-red that is made of some sort of fabric that shimmers as I walk. Underneath is a black cotton shirt that breathes out any apprehension that I have. I still feel slightly alien in this newly altered body, but I definitely feel far more confident. I mean, what would've happened if I had my interview for the Hunger Games as a fat, waddling mess of a boy? But now I'm on top of it all. This is how it feels to be _normal_. And I love it.

"Ladies and gentlemen, here is Trevor Gilman, your _new and improved_-" he winks at me, "District 2 tribute!" He turns to me, allowing me to settle into my chair. "So, Trevor, how is it to finally have the literal weight just taken off your shoulders?"

I smile and reply, "Well, Caesar, I suppose it's a blessing. I would never have had a chance at the Games until now."

"And what have you learned?"

"They're just cookies, Caesar," I smirk in a self-deprecating way, "not love."

The crowd roars with laughter, and I know that I'm winning myself some sponsors. Caesar's yellow-rimmed eyes gleam, and he chuckles, "Surely, Trevor, you won't have that kind of humor once training starts, correct?"

"I don't really know." I shrug. ""My mental health and emotional health are definitely going to get in the way for me, but my physical health is going to overrule that. At least, I hope so." I shrug again. "With this new body, I guess anything's possible."

Caesar leans in towards me and asks, "Trevor, is there a special girl that you're looking at back home that you'd love to win the heart of, should you win?"

I sit and think on that one for a minute. Honestly, the past few years, I'd been too busy stuffing my face to really notice anybody. "Not really, Caesar, but you never know."

"That's a nice dose of ambiguity," Caesar smiles encouragingly. The buzzer sounds. My interview is over. "Thank you, and best of luck, Trevor Gilman, tribute from District 2."

* * *

><p><strong>Erik Wells, 17. District 3<strong>

I walk past Trevor, who flicks his head in a barely perceptible way in acknowledgement. I return the gesture. I decide to like Trevor. He's a pretty nice guy.

"Erik Wells, of District 3!" Caesar's voice booms as I walk up to the platform. "How are you?"

"As good as I'll ever be, Caesar," I reply with a grin. "After all, this is the Hunger Games."

Caesar winks. "Too true." He sits me down in a chair. "So, Erik, I see that your stylist..."

"Grysil," I supply.

"Grysil, of course. Well I see that Grysil has put you into a relatively tame outfit for this interview." At Caesar's words, I look down at my suit. It's jet black with some sort of light suit underneath it that shimmers different shades of yellow, green, and blue. The colors shine through the suit, making it seem like I'm glowing. "Usually," Caesar jokes, "she just wraps them in a few lights and sends them off!" The Capitol audience laughs.

I grin at him. "Well, Caesar, I suppose that it's better than the naked coal miners."

Caesar laughs along with the rest of the hooting crowd, and I glance at the screens to see the cameras do a quick cut to see the mildly amused, mildly annoyed faces of the two District 12 tributes. After the laughter quiets down, Caesar asks me, "So what are your plans for the Games? Any strategies that you'd like to share?"

I put on a perfectly solemn face and tell him monotonously, "Act smart."

"Erik, you are definitely an interesting character!" Caesar chortles. He reaches over and claps me on the back. "So, I think that you'll go far. You'll be good at making alliances, I'm sure."

"Not really." I shrug. "I'm just the funny guy, Caesar. Not charming, not popular. Only funny."

I thank my sparse luck that the buzzer rings right then and there. I like the dramatic ending that I finished with. Caesar shakes my hand. "Best of luck to Erik Wells!"

* * *

><p><strong>Karin Litt, 16. District 3<strong>

"Come on up, Karin Litt!"

I rise to my feet and try my best to glide up to the platform. I know that I look good; the _oohs _and _ahhs_ of the crowd is evidence of that. My stylist has done something amazing to me. My long black hair has been trimmed into layers that slip and undulate, reflecting the spotlights in different ways. The jagged endings frame my admittedly baby-like face perfectly, finally making me seem like my true 16 years. I'm clad in an unearthly, undulating ballroom gown of pure white gossamer and silk. There are bright, neon blue accents slashed underneath openings and pleats in the gown and bodice, making me seem truly ethereal.

Caesar smiles warmly at me. "Hello, Karin." His golden lips are curved into a mischievous expression. "So, how is it to be here?"

"It's unexpected, for sure," I giggle softly, trying to amp up the innocent girl act and win some sponsors. I see my mentor, Finnian Daton, nodding approvingly at my acting. "It's just pretty amazing to be here. I mean, I miss my mother and my...friend James."

"Do I sense a relationship with this James?" Caesar waggles his sunshine-yellow eyebrows.

I blush, looking down at my clasped hands bashfully. "Yes, I suppose so. He told me that he loved me before I left. That he'd love me whether I lived or died." The crowd murmurs in sympathy and mutual affection. I'm proud of myself. Already, I'm a favorite here.

Caesar leans over and pats my hand with a sympathetic smile. "Well, Karin, let's hope that you win so you can be with him." He looks around and moves on. "So do you have any skills or strategies that you'd like to share before you go off to training tomorrow?"

"I won't be fooled by anything," I warn. "I'm smart and I can hide. Being small has its advantages." I stare into the cameras. "I wouldn't forget me, if I were you."

"That's good," Caesar tells me. "Any allies?"

I shake my head. "It'd be too hard to do. First of all, allies are a liability. You are responsible for them. Second, I wouldn't want to have to go through the pain of losing them."

Caesar looks sympathetic. He informs me, "I know how it must feel. Tons of tributes-" He's interrupted by the buzzer. "Oh, well, I suppose it's over for now. Well, best of luck in training and the Games, Karin Litt."

"Thank you," I reply sweetly, and then I glide off the stage, sure that I've won the hearts of sponsors.

I hope so. It's the only way I'll survive.

* * *

><p><strong>Scout Rosewell, 16. District 4<strong>

I know that I'll be able to totally pull off that sweet, alluring, and innocent act. It'll be perfect. I'll have that mixture of innocence combined with that...sexiness, I guess? I guess that's the word.

At least my outfit helps. I'm in a sea-blue dress that hugs my each and every curve and ends mid-thigh on me. I'm trying my best not to fall as I saunter up to the platform on my extremely high blue heels. My long, raven-black hair has been styled into waves that are interwoven with blue ribbons. I make sure to throw a smoldering yet sweet glance towards the audience before sitting on the soft interview chair.

"And this is Scout Rosewell, the female tribute from District 4!" Caesar tells the crowd that obviousy can't be bothered what my name is. I'll just be another pretty face. So I have to make this count.

I grin winningly at the cameras. "It's so good to be here, Caesar. I'm so excited!" I toss my dark hair behind my shoulder to allow the cameras a better look at my face and eyes. "Everybody here is just so nice!" I gush. "You, my stylist, my prep team..." I risk taking a glance back at the other tributes. Most are rolling their eyes in annoyance. Of course. How else would I expect them to act about the bubbly airhead of a tribute?

Of course, I'm not an airhead.

It's good to lead them on like that.

"Well, that's good. I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in the Capitol." _Because you're probably going to die, _I mentally finish Caesar's sentence. "So," my interviewer goes on, "that is such a gorgeous token. Who's it from?"

I look down at the blue, engraved trident that rests just in the center of my dress, perfectly aligned with the neckline. "This is from my boyfriend, Edward. He gave this to me in the Justice Building." The crowd sighs in bliss at the mention of a love story. They just gobble those up. "I..." I pause to wipe at my slightly teary eyes, though mostly I'm just acting, "I just hope I see him again. I love him, I really do!"

Caesar presses his hands to his heart, as if he's in pain. He says, "Scout, I hope for your sake that you'll see him too." His golden-contact-covered eyes glow with a new idea. "Speaking of making it out alive, do you have any plans for allies or a strategy?"

"Well, I'm flexible and I'm good at combat of all sorts. I'm thinking of finding a big group of others."

"Careers?"

I shake my head, biting my lip nervously. This could make me a target. "Nope. Too many expectations." Despite my nerves, I curve my lips into a mysterious, sweet smile. "I'm making my own rules here."

* * *

><p><strong>David J. Martin Wilson, 17. District 4<strong>

"Well, David. It's been quite the journey for you, eh?" Caesar asks, enthusiastically pumping my hand in welcome. "You do seem..."

"Happy to be here?" I cut in, grinning charmingly. "Yes."

Caesar chuckles. "So what is your story, David? The crowd is dying to know!" He turns and looks to the crowd. "Right?"

The mob screams their approval. I smirk to myself. I know that I'm already a favorite, naturally due to my District 4 heritage. Those features have been enhanced amazingly, thanks to my stylist, Mary Jane Edwin.

My pale brown eyes have been lightly rimmed with a touch of smoky gray that makes the color even more striking. My hair has been tousled and gelled slightly, making it look carefree and casual. My body, however, has been clad in a handsome, shimmering silk suit that is shining with dark blue on top and immaculate white pants on the bottom.

I smile quietly and look down with a small chuckle and shake of my head. "Caesar, all I can say is that I lived a good life. I found my beautiful girlfriend, Bianca. Here she is." I reach under my shirt and pull out the locket, opening it and holding it up, showing Bianca's face to the crowd. There is a chorus of sighs of admiration, and murmurs of jealousy from the Capitol girls. "Anyways, it was just an honor in my family to be picked, so I can't complain."

"Are you good at fighting?" he asks me.

I flash Caesar a knowing look. "Caesar, of course!" I laugh, smiling to my fullest and best extent. "I am, after all, a District 4 tribute!"

He nods with a knowledgeable smile and a twitch of his golden eyebrows. "So, I guess you'll be a Career?"

"Absolutely," I reply with total conviction.

Caesar nods thoughtfully. "Now, David, are you planning on using your charms to win in th arena?"

I flash a quick gaze out at the crowd, returning my eyes to let them bore into Caesar's. "The ladies may fall at my feet, but I already have a special one waiting for me, Caesar."

* * *

><p><strong>Kylar Okray, 16. District 5<strong>

I flick at a speck of dust that mars the perfect surface of my jet-black suit. The neat, tailored fabric is buttoned smartly with the bottom five buttons, allowing my pale blue shirt to shine through a bit. I have to admit that Blaise is really playing up that whole 'one brown eye, one blue eye' thing. The azure in my shirt matches my blue eye perfectly.

Damn heterochromia.

I glance up as David finishes his interview, nearly making the Capitol women swoon when he flashes them a smile that would stop a lion in its tracks with its charming brightness. I know that I'm up next and I stand up quickly, honestly not wanting to be here at all.

The floor feels like it is gently swaying beneath my feet. The platform seems like it is an eternity away, but I manage to stumble towards the seat without too much embarrassment on my behalf. I silently shake Caesar's hand, only offering a tight-lipped smile that I don't bother to make realistic.

"So, Kylar, I hear that you are quite the heartthrob here among the Capitol ladies. Your silence apparently makes them curious about what you're like. And apparently, your looks are stunning."

I shrug, barely tossing my head so I can get that annoying strand of hair out of my eyes. "I guess I'm okay. I've never really been called handsome, but..." I kind of wave my hand in the air, trying to make my point known that I honestly don't care what anyone thinks of me. I just don't want to talk much. I've unfortunately discovered that I have terrible stage fright.

Caesar tries again. "Have you made any friends here?"

"My district partner, Xienna, I suppose." I can't help my blush as I glance behind myself at the District 9 seats. Jaylin is sitting there, her caramel-colored hair falling over one shoulder in a shimmering sheet. "There's a girl, though. I'd like to get to know her better." The crowd cheers and a few catcalls are heard through the cheering.

Caesar winks. "Good man," he praises, clapping me on the back with a proud smile. But then his smile falters a bit. "How are you going to survive in the arena, Kylar?"

Something in me snaps, and I yank my head up, glaring at him with all the intensity I can muster. "My whole life has been a fight for survival, it's a fight I've nearly lost several times already. My fight may be hard, but I can't give up...it's just not an option. I don't just fight for myself, I fight for my sister, the most important person in my life..."

The crowd holds its breath.

I look up.

"And it's a fight I don't plan on losing."

* * *

><p><strong>Xienna Rider, 15. District 5<strong>

I'm astounded by Kylar's speech. He always seemed so gentle and timid to me, and this explosion of rage and determination surprises me. He stalks back to his seat, his mismatched eyes sparking with anger.

"Come on up, Xienna Rider of District 5!" Caesar calls.

I stand up and stride to him, letting my shimmering silver gown flow to its fullest extent. It is tight and strapless on the top, with the skirt flowing out at the waist. Of course, not obnoxiously so, but it is still beautiful. My eyes have been shadowed with black that makes their unnatural blue-green color stand out in sharp relief. All of my curly hair is falling down my shoulders, tumbling in shining contrast to the glimmer of my gown.

Caesar kisses my hand gentlemanly, sitting me down in my posh interview chair. "Hello, Xienna. First of all, allow me to say that you have a beautiful name."

I look down, letting a modest blush color my cheeks. "Thank you, Caesar."

"How do you like the Capitol so far?"

"I love the food. There's an amazing seafood dish...it's something called shellfish..." I look helplessly to Caesar, trying to get him to help me remember the name.

Caesar - bless his heart - helps me out by guessing, "Shrimp?" When he sees me shake my head, his eyes light up. "Oh, do you mean the crab cakes?"

"Yes!" I exclaim, grinning charmingly as the crowd titters. "That's it!"

"Glad I could help," Caesar tells me, turning to the audience. "I know my foods, don't I?"

Naturally, the crowd roars.

Caesar turns back to me with a more serious face. "Now Xienna, what are your hopes for the Games?"

"I will stay fighting 'till the end. Repentina semper desinit victor atenção."

The crowd murmurs in surprise. I am proud. This is good that I've intrigued them.

Maybe now I'll actually survive.


	18. Interviews Part 2

**Hello, friends! Again, this is a late update. I have a feeling that it'll be this way for a while now. I'm making some decisions that'll improve the speed and efficiency of this story that you may want to hear: **

**1. I won't actually write training sessions or Gamemaker tryouts. I will, however, devote the next chapter to scores, with some mini-flashbacks that tell the story of training.**

**2. Next, there's going to be the brief session before the Games.**

**3. The BLOODBATH!**

**4. THE GAMES BEGIN!**

**I am ashamed to admit that I wanted to get this chapter out as soon as possible...so these are shorter.**

**You'll notice that the name of Sage's brother, Gaffe, means mistake. I went with the theme that went with Blight, which means a scar, mark, or disfigurement.**

**And a note to everyone: I'm sorry, and I may sound quite mean when I say this, but please don't remind me of the fact that I'm taking a while. I'll update, I promise. Just give me some time.**

**Well, I've picked the bloodbath tributes. Not many (I felt bad) but sometimes it's because I just didn't see a future for the character, or the person who submitted the tribute didn't even fill out the form completely, which COMPLETELY left me hanging. So your tribute dies. Get over it; you all die eventually, except for one. So don't hate me for killing your tribute.**

* * *

><p><strong>Haley Francis Donner, 15. District 6<strong>

Oh, great. Xienna just spoke in some random language that I've never heard of and I'm just sitting here in the interview chair, feeling like a total airhead. Once again, my stylist has shoved me into something that I had absolutely no say on, but it looks surprisingly beautiful. It's a flowing, steel gray gown that hugs my barely-there curves and then flows out like a smooth flow of dusk-darkened water, accented only by the rage-red jewelry that I wear. My short brown hair had apparently posed a challenge to my stylist, due the fact that it just barely passes my earlobes. However, it's been straightened and stylishly cut, lending me a rugged, mischievous look.

"So, Haley, you have captured the hearts of the Capitol with that dazzling smile of yours and that stunning determination you showed at the reapings," Caesar begins after the clapping subsides. "Is there anything behind that display that you'd like to share?"

I shrug with a hint of a smile flitting across my face. "Oh, you know," I answer flippantly. "I just try to make sure that I look perrrrfect." I draw out the word with the accuracy and laziness of a well-fed Capitol citizen.

Apparently, my imitation was funny, because the crowd titters. I feel encouraged.

"Of course," I add, "There's also the fact that I looked skinnier than all of the anorexic girls in the district. That probably helped a bit."

More laughs.

Caesar, still smiling, asks, "Any plans for the arena, Haley?"

I answer, "Not really. Just stay alive and kill. That's all I can do."

"No exact plans for survival?"

I laugh without humor, staring him right in the eyes. "Caesar, nothing ever goes exactly as planned. If anything went as _I_ planned it, then I wouldn't be here, would I?"

* * *

><p><strong>Guire Davids, 15. District 6<strong>

Haley walks back over to our custom District 6 chairs, which have silver wings extended from them that mimic the design of our chariot costumes. I'm glad that I'm out of that garish costume that Haley and I were paraded in. This time, I look suave, controlled, and pretty much awesome. My swishy dark brown hair has been just barely trimmed into shape, taming the wild cowlicks but still letting the auburn-tinted strands fly the way that I'm proud to say that they do.

"Nice suit," Caesar comments as he shakes my hand. I glance down at it.

"Thanks." It's a shimmering silver with sky-blue trim on the lapels and cuffs, and I'm wearing a warm, pressed blue collared shirt underneath the suit jacket that feels like the softest fabric in all of Panem. "My stylist helped." I give a small chuckle. "She said that it would 'highlight my eyes'. What is it with women and eyes?" I point to my eyes - which, by the way, are the exact color of the trim on my suit - and ask the audience, "I mean, my eyes aren't all that exciting, right?"

I smile my most charming grin as the Capitol teenagers fall over themselves in their haste to tell me that my eyes are stunning. I know that I'm laying it on a bit thick, but I want to get some popularity votes. Those are going to be hard to come by, seeing as the District 4 tributes seem to be descended from angels, having the looks of sculpted porcelain and marble.

Caesar pats me on the back approvingly. "Well, Guire, you have the smooth charm of a snake and the looks of a statue. Beyond that exterior, what lies beneath? An archer? A swordsman? Or a ruthless killer?"

"I'm afraid you'll just have to wait and see," I tell him, smiling in a way that makes Caesar's mouth settle in frustration.

Trying again, he presses, "You don't want to die, do you, Guire?"

"You know," I answer, speaking slowly for emphasis, "I guess some of us are just born to die. I mean, don't get me wrong; I'm going to fight tooth and nail to get home, but the reality of the situation is that 23 of us aren't going home. Well," I give a small laugh, "we're all going home, just 23 of us will be in coffins."

Caesar raises his sunshine-yellow eyebrows.

I raise my eyes again to meet his. "But I wouldn't count me out yet."

* * *

><p><strong>James Wood, 17. District 7<strong>

Oh, 'charming' this. 'He's so handsome!' that. Pretty much all of the guys so far have been total conceited jerks. It's quite annoying, actually, so that means that I'll have to change my strategy for my interview. Sure, I'll throw in some dark humor, but I'll be that one tribute that looks ominous and frightening. I mean, that's not like me at all, but I have to make a mark somehow.

"Come on up, James!" crows Caesar.

I step slowly up to the platform, making sure that the cameras sweep all across my built, muscular chest and arms, focusing on the muscles that are barely hidden by my immaculate white suit jacket. "Hello, Caesar," I say quietly, raising my hand to lightly touch the brim of my white fedora hat in acknowledgement.

Caesar smiles as he shakes my hand vigorously. "May I call you Jim? Jimmy?"

My face sets in a frown. "No."

"Okay, then." Caesar mouths _wow_ to the audience with his eyes wide. When he turns back to me, he asks, "So, James, do you like the Capitol?"

I laugh. "Honestly?" I ask. When he nods eagerly, I answer, "Not much. I actually hate it a bit. It's so high-and-mighty."

"Well." Caesar sniffs and straightens his suit, obviously affronted. "Do you have any plans to survive here?"

My shoulders move in a shrug. "As long as I do my best in there, I know I'll survive."

* * *

><p><strong>Sage Smith, 13. District 7<strong>

I toss my head like I've seen the other girls do, letting my shimmering, brushed-out brown hair tumble and sweep across my shoulders. As James finishes his interview, one more tipping that white hat of his, I straighten my back and sit at attention.

Caesar's silky voice cuts through the excited buzzing in my head. "Sage Smith. Please come on up!"

I gather my strength and let out a deep breath, standing and smoothing the silky fabric of my forest green dress. Trying my best to glide, I step to the platform, smiling lovably at the audience. "Hello, Caesar," I say quietly, shaking his hand and trying not to be distracted by how outrageously yellow he is. "It's good to be here."

"Good to have you, my dear!" Caesar replies enthusiastically. "Sit, sit!" As soon as he sees that I am settled, Caesar launches right into the subject that he's probably been waiting all night to pounce on. "Sage, I remember sitting here with your brother last year."

Of course. I freeze up and look up at Caesar slowly. "You're bringing up Gaffe? Now?"

"Dearest Sage, you must realize that in order to get the full depth of your personality, we must come to terms with the death of your brother."

"He was killed by the last tribute. What else is there to say?" I shake my head and smile. "Caesar, let's move on here."

Caesar inclines his head obligingly. "Of course. Any particular weapons of yours that you're good with?"

"An axe, or a knife. Both of those are perfect for me."

He waves a hand in the air, seemingly at a loss for words. Finally, his eyes brighten and he looks back at me. "Sage, will your possible win help lay your older brother's memory to rest?"

I smile at him sadly, and I can hear the sympathetic sighs of the Capitol audience. "Oh, Caesar," I tell him. "I wish I could tell you that I'm trying to win this for my brother or even for myself. I'm trying to win so that I can go back to the boy who loves me and who I love back."

* * *

><p><strong>Rosita Lockhart, 17. District 8<strong>

"Hello, Caesar," I purr, giving a quick and informal curtsy, knowing that I look somewhere between cute and sexy. My short, knee-length sunshine-yellow dress is, sadly, matching perfectly with Caesar. At least _my_ outfit is accessorized with a coffee-brown belt and a wide brown band that wraps around my hair, which is held up in a tight and beautiful bun.

The interviewer kisses my hand with a smile, waving me towards a seat. I perch on the edge and cross my freshly waxed legs. Caesar begins, "So you've been one of the most fortunate young women in District 8! Your career has led you easily through life."

"Indeed, Caesar." I give a small laugh.

"So is that sheltered lifestyle going to affect you in the arena?"

My smile fades. "Germs," I tell him. "They're my weakness."

Caesar looks so surprised, I swear that he almost laughs. But he catches himself and asks, "What about germs?"

"They're just...dangerous."

"Speaking of dangerous," Caesar changes the subject, "how is this little weakness of yours going to affect your arena strategy?"

Oh, this is just wonderful. I put on that beautiful, innocently sultry smile and lean in, beckoning him closer with my finger. After the shining yellow mass of a man leans towards me, I tell him, "I won't say much, but I'm definitely going to be very versatile and creative in the Games with my killings."

* * *

><p><strong>Ranen Hollock, 12. District 8<strong>

The other girl from my district, the yellow one with the dark brown hair, slowly walks back to our chairs. I try to signal to her, to tell her that I'm in trouble and she's the only one who knows me enough to help me, but she doesn't seem to notice. I am forced to watch as Caesar unknowingly beckons me forward with a call of something along the lines of _Come on up, Ranen Hollock!_

And I get up and walk.

The blackness is heavy on my ears tonight.

I sit down nervously in the chair, trying to lose myself in the plush folds, waiting to begin reading lips. Caesar asks me how I'm doing.

I shrug.

He asks me if I'm excited for the Games.

Again, I shrug.

And then he says...he says...

What?

I'm panicked. I look around wildly for Rosita, but she's engrossed in her yellow-painted nails. I focus on Caesar's expectant face again. "Deaf!" I tell him desperately, trying to force the word out audibly. "No hear you!"

He looks shocked and motions to someone offstage. Then, as a translator rushes onto the platform in long robes of violet and red, Caesar mouths something I cannot read. I look to the translator, who signs, _Can you answer questions this way?_

_Yes_, I tell him, and he orally conveys my message to Caesar who nods and smiles. _I don't know what you want to ask, but all I can say is that I'll try to do whatever I can to survive in that arena as long as possible._

_That's good, _Caesar speaks through my translator's rapidly signing hands. _The best of luck to you, Ranen Hollock._

* * *

><p><strong>Zale Tatum, 13. District 9<strong>

I feel sorry for that Ranen boy, what with him being deaf and all. I make a note to myself to ally with him. He's going to need a friend in this competition to help him survive as long as possible.

I look up with a start as Caesar calls my name. "Zale Tatum, the tribute from District 9! Come on up!" I straighten my suit and head up to the platform, offering an apologetic smile to Ranen when I pass him. As soon as I sit down, Caesar whistles. "Wow, Zale, that is some suit that your stylist has given you."

"Yeah, it's pretty cool." Indeed it is. Despite its simple design and fit, the color of my suit is a near-blinding bright orange with darker orange accents at the cuffs and lapels. "My stylist really went all-out with this one. I mean, look!" I hold out my sleeves, and both Caesar and the cameras lean closer to see that the entire suit is actually made of dyed wheat, woven together to form a light and airy fabric.

Caesar smiles. "Yes, your stylist is a good one." Then his face turns somber. "So, Zale, how do you feel about the Games? Nervous?"

"Well, yes," I tell him. "I'm not really the type of guy to use weapons, so I'll just have to learn in training."

"Good, good." Caesar asks, "Zale, who at home are you looking forward to coming back to?"

I grimace. That's a sore subject. Not even my parents really care about my fate. "Well, there's really only my best friend, Sara. She's the one who gave me this ring." I hold up my right hand, showing the thick iron band on my third finger.

"So, I'm guessing that you're not the most popular guy around?" Caesar questions, his face a mask of sympathy.

I laugh with a rueful grin. "Not so much, but wouldn't it be fun to watch their jaws drop if I return?"

* * *

><p><strong>Jaylin Brooke Adams, 16. District 9<strong>

I have to admit, Kylar is very good-looking. His eyes, his hair, everything is perfect. And I'm glad that he admitted his attraction to me without really saying my name, even though it was pretty obvious who he was talking about. But I know I'll have to talk to him during training tomorrow.

"Jaylin Brooke Adams!"

This is it. I let out a deep breath and stand slowly, taking a moment to look down and make sure there are no wrinkles in my pure white dress. It reaches to mid-thigh in the front, but turns into a full-on ballgown in the back. There are slashes of white gems all about the bodice, and my hair falls to land just at the middle of my back. There are small braids of my hair interwoven with white silk that are interspersed randomly in my hair, peeking out at random points. I love the look.

Caesar smiles gently at me, encouraging me as I walk towards the platform. "Don't be shy, young lady."

"Hi," I greet him with a soft smile. "It's good to finally meet you."

"And you as well." He waits until I am settled before he begins. "So, Jaylin, how is the Capitol working out for you? I hear that you're meeting new people...?" he trails off with a knowing grin, and I sigh. He's bringing up Kylar's confession.

Laughing softly, I tell him, "Well, I guess that my time in the Capitol has been productive, to say the least. I'll definitely be looking into seeing those new people." I take a risk and glance back at Kylar, who meets my eyes bashfully. The crowd as good as swoons.

Caesar brings attention back to himself with a simple, "How do you expect to survive if you don't have Kylar to protect you?"

I ponder that for a moment. "I might not have the same amount of strength or experience as some of the other tributes, but I want to go home just as much, and I plan on going back."

* * *

><p><strong>Doe Jhonson, 14. District 10<strong>

Jaylin is one of the bravest and most beautiful people I've ever seen. I wish I was as strong as her. But, unfortunately, I ruined my reputation the second that I was reaped.

I try to swallow my fear and step up quickly and boldly, keeping my eyes downcast. The deep navy shadow on my eyes and the silver glitter that is lightly dusted on my face gives me an air of mystery. I'm clad in a strapless, deep navy dress that reaches to the middle of my thighs, and I have black beaded jewelry and shoes that sparkle like the obsidian stones that they are. All in all, I am a dark and mysteriouos figure that is lit up like a candle by my rage-red hair.

Hopefully it'll give the audience a reason to keep their eyes on me.

"Hi, Caesar," I murmur, shaking his hand with a mysterious grin. "Wow, I can't believe I'm actually here!"

"Hard to believe, isn't it?" Caesar asks. Then he pats my arm. "I hear that your reaping was a bit shaky."

I grimace with a laugh. "Yeah, it wasn't exactly the best way to start my newfound career as a Hunger Games tribute." I shake my head. "Really, it was not the way I expected to walk up to the platform."

The crowd laughs.

Caesar asks, "What kind of things do _you_ do that make you special?"

"I hide. I stab things. So, pretty much just hiding and knives. That's all I do." I look up at him, my eyes blazing among the silver glitter and dark shadows on my face.

"And I intend to win."

* * *

><p><strong>Fergus McKlain, 12. District 10<strong>

"Hello, Fergus!" Caesar booms.

I nod in acknowledgement. "Hello, Caesar." I wince at how different my accent sounds from everybody else's in Panem. Caesar notices it too.

He cocks his yellow-dyed head to the side. "So I take it you're not from Panem? You're very different, young Mr. McKlain."

"Yes, sir," I acknowledge, drying my sweaty palms on my suit of striped gray and silver. The subtle silver stripes, barely able to be seen, look awesome. "My mum's from Scotland, which is way up across the ocean from Panem. I got my accent from her."

Caesar nods thoughtfully. "Now, Fergus, you are one of the youngest tributes this year. And, we have all noticed, you are quite small. Do you think you have any sort of advantage over the others?"

I think on that one. Of course I do. I'm stronger than I look, and I've got that rough army upbringing that allows me to stay strong even in times of great poverty - which is often. "You know, Caesar," I tell him, "I may be small and young, but don't count me out just yet. I have some tricks up my sleeves."

"That's good," Caesar encourages me. "Do you know of any weapons that you can use?"

Of course. Pistols, machine guns, grenade launchers, crossbows, harpoons, swords, you name 'em and I know 'em. But I can't tell them that on national television. "I'm pretty good with a harpoon," I admit. "But that's all I'll say for now."

The buzzer rings and Caesar and I rise, shaking hands enthusiastically. "Best of luck to you, Fergus McKlain."

* * *

><p><strong>Tarragon Tempest, 15. District 11<strong>

Dear, dear. This is quite the predicament. I am surely the tribute that stands out like a sore thumb among the others. My skin is dark as the slums where I live in our district, and not even my district partner looks the same. For God's sake, she's one of the only ones in the entirety of District 11 that has white skin! No matter now. My only objective from here on in is to kill her and nearly all the others.

"So, Tarragon, you volunteered, and that hasn't happened in your district for over a decade! What motivated you to do this?"

I shrug halfheartedly, relishing the feel of the soft green cotton sleeves of my suit on my arms. "I mean, Ignavus was only 12 years old. The least I could do was to let him survive another year. I'm nothing to most people; I have no family to mourn for me."

"None?"

"My parents left me because they were dirt poor, my little sister was stabbed brutally to death by a thief when I was 8, and I have no friends at the community home. I really do not have anybody. At all."

The women in the audience are sighing and dabbing their eyes with hankerchiefs. I snort to myself. At least they can afford those stupid frilly cloth tissues.

Caesar pats my arm in sympathy. "Will your hard upbringing affect your performance in the arena, do you think?"

"I'll be smart in that arena. I won't go looking for my own death." I point my finger at him. "If there is _one_ thing I learned back in 11, it's that you don't go looking for trouble. You wait for it to find you and you kick the crap out of it." I sit back. "That's my strategy."

I lean back in my chair and say nothing more throughout the entire interview, merely inclining my head for a 'yes' or 'no'. Caesar seems to be caught between amusement and annoyance as, time after time, his attempts to get me to talk fail.

They'll never work. I've said all that I needed to say.

* * *

><p><strong>Kia Beckford, 16. District 11<strong>

I'm draped in tight, clinging layers of pure white, nearly see-through lace that hug my every curve but also have excess at the shoulders that drapes down my arms in a billowing cape-sleeve to form into a white fingerless glove on my wrist. My tattoos are showing in strategically placed holes in the tight fabric, and my hair swishes around me in a way I didn't know was possible.

I catch Zale stealing glances at me. He _is _cute, and I might even go so far as to say he's good-looking. I mean, he's younger than me, but he still looks good...

Never mind. Eyes on the prize, Kia.

I stride quickly but gracefully up to the platform, delicately taking a seat on the edge of the plush seat. I graciously shake Caesar's hand, and just barely manage to hide my look of disgust when I see that my hand is now covered in golden glitter. I discreetly wipe it on the seat while saying, "It's wonderful to be here."

"It's good to have you!" Caesar replies. "So what do you think? Quite the shock for you, right?"

"Definitely," I reply with a small laugh. "I mean, just a few days ago, I was saving up money to send my dad here for rehabilitation, and now I have the opportunity of a lifetime to send him wherever I want as long as I survive."

"He's a morphling addict, right?"

My head moves in a nod. "Yes, he's been one for a while."

"It's amazing, really," Caesar comments thoughtfully.

I raise my eyebrows. "What is?"

"You know, the fact that you don't even care about your glory; only your father's recovery. You truly are a good soul, Kia Beckford."

"Thank you." I incline my head in thanks, giving him a curving, mischievous grin.

Caesar shakes his head in disbelief. "You've obviously been raised to be a fighter. How will that affect you in the arena? Do you expect to survive, what with your generous and soft demeanor?

I laugh in incredulity. "I've been through hell these last few years, but I've learned to rise above it and fight it; what makes you think I won't be able to do the same here? After all, this is worse than hell itself."

* * *

><p><strong>Allegra Mariel, 17. District 12<strong>

Such soft girls. They have no idea what a real warrior is like.

Oh, yeah. Me.

This is so pathetic. Being paraded around like circus animals? Please. I just can't believe it; what with them getting us all dolled up just so that we can die later on in a bloody, pathetic way.

I, for one, am glad that I intimidated my stylist into altering my outfit. It is no longer a long, smoky black and gray ballgown with the occasional flash of stunning yellow, which represents headlamps. Now, it is a pure black masterpiece made of shining, skintight leather that shines and hugs my legs, chest, and arms, showing off all of my wiry strength. My face has been painted with black coal dust and dark gray shadows that make my green eyes shine. I feel dark and dangerous.

Ignoring Caesar's extended hand, I sit and stare at him. "Hello," I say disinterestedly, examining my black nails with an air of overall superiority.

"Why, hello, Allegra. I hear you're quite the survivor."

"That's right."

"Anything you'd like to share?"

I look over at him with my eyebrows raised. "Well, Caesar, I'm going to have to say that I love to kill people. If I have to survive, then that's even better. Now I have a real reason to just let loose and let everybody fall to my feet in a bloody heap."

"...Oh." Caesar looks distinctly uncomfortable, and a whole minute passes in silence before the buzzer rings, with me sitting and staring right at him.

I smirk. "Bye, Caesar."

* * *

><p><strong>Aramind Fallius, 17. District 12<strong>

Well, Allegra really is not a likable person.

She stole the idea for my outfit but, of course, I look a lot better. I'm wearing a heavy, black leather jacket over a headlamp-yellow shirt that is smudged with black coal dust. I'm also wearing black pants and lace-up miner's boots that are shined to perfection.

I stride confidently up to the platform, shaking Caesar's hand with a smile. I'm going for the spirited, cocky angle here. Of course, not too cocky, but it doesn't hurt to be confident. "Hey, Caesar," I greet my yellow-clad interviewer with a toss of my slightly grown-out brown hair.

"Hey, Aramind. How are you?"

With an apologetic shrug, I tell him, "I've been better." But I shake that off with a laugh and an animated wave of my hand. "But, honestly, I'm pretty excited to take out my anger at my dad on other people."

"You don't like your dad?" Caesar asks.

"That's an understatement," I inform him.

Caesar replies, "Nobody really likes their parents nowadays, do they, right?" When I nod, he adds, "What kind of stuff do you do, a strapping boy like you from the mining district? And how will it affect your strategy in the arena?"

"If I can hit a rock with a pick, I can hit a tribute with a sword," I tell him matter-of-factly.

Caesar laughs uproariously, and the crowd joins in. "Well, Aramind, you can bet that we'll be watching you in the arena."

"Of course, Caesar," I reply with a chuckle.

_Of course you will._


	19. Training Scores

**For this, there will only be a few POVs. I really want to get to the Games. This is short and just tells the scores. I don't even do flashbacks for the last two POVs. I just didn't have it in me.**

* * *

><p><strong>Colakis Maphen, 18. District 1<strong>

This is it. This is the moment that could decide my fate in the Games. If it doesn't go well, then I guess that I might as well throw in the towel and just trigger the exploding plate in the arena.

Zella is examining her nails next to me, looking bored. She's wearing a soft blue cotton shirt and black silk sweatpants that are loose and airy. I'm wearing a similar outfit, but I have a red shirt.

After all, red is a man's color.

The TV in our living room flickers to life, showing President Snow as he gives his customary speech. Then the screen ticks to Caesar, who explains what the scores are, and the factors, and what have you. While I wait, I try to relive what's been going on the past three days.

_I spun and hacked at the dummy again, this time sawing it in half. The sword still felt heavy and ungainly in my hands. I threw it at the feet of the head Gamemaker and scooped up an iron-tipped spear, weighing it in my hands before grabbing its mates and stalking across the room to about fifty feet from the row of nondescript tan dummies. _

_Then I attacked._

_Spear after spear after spear, I launched a deadly volley and sent it hurtling towards the dummies. They slammed into the dummies one after another, hitting the bodies with slams. Of course, not all of them did, but the ones that did hit home in the chest or neck._

_The Gamemakers looked impressed._

I look up at the screen. My face and name flash on the screen, followed by a bright, flashing nine.

A nine!

Zella looks at me jealously; she got a nine too. I bet that she'd hoped to beat me.

District 2 scores are much of the same, expect for that disappointment, Trevor Gilman. He lost a lot of weight, but he never had a chance to train before that. He got a five. Mallory, the 12-year-old, got an impressive eight. I remember seeing her nimbly jump about while swinging a sword.

So far, so good.

* * *

><p><strong>Scout Rosewell, 16. District 4<strong>

_Erik walked up to me the second day, having just finished a rigorous session at the ax station. "Hey," he greeted me, wiping a bead of sweat off his brow._

_"You're the funny guy. I remember your interview," I replied. "What do you want?" I twirled my trident in my hands, waiting for him to answer._

_"I want an alliance."_

_I laughed. "You want to ally with me?"_

_"You're not hanging with the Careers," he protested calmly. "So why not hang with me? We use the same weapons."_

_Shaking his extended hand, I warned, "You double-cross me, and I'll kill you."_

Now I look up at the screen as my ally's score and face flash on the screen. He got a seven. Honestly, that's not bad. His district partner, that quiet outcast Karin, got a six, so I guess Erik's score is better than nothing.

David, who's sitting beside me with his mentor James O'Donnell, clenches his fists with anticipation as his name and picture show up on the screen. His score...a ten! We all cheer for him and James claps David on the back, congratulating him with a gruff smile.

I got a ten too!

This is a perfect day! David and I are at the very front of the pack in terms of scores. Nothing can bring us down now.

* * *

><p><strong>Guire Davids, 15. District 6<strong>

I sit down in front of the television with Haley. We're both wearing dark blue jumpsuits that will apparently help us get ready for how the real arena jumpsuits will feel. I feel a rush of fear as I see the high scores of the two District 4 tributes. I remember them in training.

_"Get out of the way!" the raven-haired girl hissed to me, pushing me aside as she picked up an ax that I'd just put down. I knew that she was trouble from the minute I saw her._

_I muttered, "Fine," and stalked off, finding an open spot at the sword station._

_"Welcome!" the grizzled instructor growled. "Do you know how to use one of these swords?"_

_I shrugged. "Not really, but I'll learn."_

_"Well, then let's put you to work," he said in satisfaction, and he worked me until I sweated through my water-resistant clothes._

Xienna and Kylar, the two tributes from District 5, both got sixes.

My name flashes...

A seven!

I feel drained of all of my fear. This is good. I have a decent score and now I'll be able to get some sponsors.

Haley squeals happily as she sees that she got an eight, which is unusually high. I wonder what she did in her session with the Gamemakers.

It doesn't matter now, though. This is it. I've got to get it right from now on.

* * *

><p><strong>Sage Smith, 13. District 7<strong>

_Work, work, work! I urged myself, stabbing again and again at the dummy._

_My instructor clapped. "Good. Very good." He nudged me back to the weapons area of the knife station, then took the dummy and moved it fifty feet away from me. He came back and handed me a slender throwing knife. "Hit that," he told me._

_I threw it._

_I missed._

_I threw it again._

_It hit right where the sternum would be._

_Bingo._

"You'll do fine," my mentor soothes me. He's also James' mentor as well. He's only 17 years old, but he won the Games two years ago and became fast friends with James when he got back. His name's Jaden Blaze, I think.

James' picture flashes on the screen, followed by a shining eight. I know he deserves it. I remember seeing him using a heavy mace and a double-edged ax like they were toys.

Next comes me. I've got a seven! I scream in happiness and jump out of my seat, excitedly hugging my stylist, Liyana.

I look in curiosity at the score of the deaf boy, Ranen Hollock. I'm surprised to see that he got a seven too. I don't know what he did, but it must have been good. His partner, that Rosita girl, got a five. That's understandable. She stood around and washed her hands the whole time, only using a dagger occasionally.

Oh, well. It can't be helped now.

* * *

><p><strong>Fergus McKlain, 12. District 10<strong>

Doe sits with her knees up right next to me, huddled underneath a white blanket that looks pale against her red locks. I see the scores for the District 9 tributes flash before my eyes. The boy, Zale, only got a three. He's a scrawny kid, I guess, but I already promised that I'd ally with him. His partner, Jaylin, got a seven, which isn't half bad.

I see that my face has flashed up, followed by a sudden shot of me in training, lifting massive weights. I smirk. They captured my one best talents during training.

And it paid off. I got an eight, which is awesome. I have good chances now.

Doe's face shows up with a flashing six underneath it.

We're all happy now. We're celebrating.

I'm just counting down until the massacre begins.

* * *

><p><strong>Kia Beckford, 16. District 11<strong>

Tarragon is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Honestly, I'm tired of him always acting like he's too cool. His face flashed onscreen.

He got a ten!

I glare at him; this guy is outrageously annoying when he smirks like that.

At least I got an eight.

Aramind Fallius, that creepy pickaxe guy from District 12, got a seven, which gives me a reason to have pride. At least I beat the scrawny District 12 tributes.

That girl, Allegra, got a nine. She's stronger than she lets on.

I cross my fingers. Tomorrow I'll be in the Games, and that's when it'll all boil down to see who can keep themselves sane the longest.


	20. The Bloodbath

**The bloodbath, guys! Here we go! I've been waiting for so long to give you this!**

* * *

><p><strong>All Tributes, All Districts<strong>

Here it is. The platform that I stand on rises from the tube, letting me catch my first glimpses of the arena.

I am immediately blinded. The hot sun is refracting off of the high metal walls that surround me on all sides, with only a few openings to be seen.

I look around and see everybody else clenching their fists. I do so as well.

It's now or never.

* * *

><p><strong>Trevor Gilman, 15. District 2<strong>

_"Attention all tributes: There has been a change in the rules of the bloodbath this time. Each pile you see in the Cornucopia belongs to one of you. Each pile or pack you see has something that we, as the Gamemakers, feel you should possess to best let you survive the longest in this Hunger Games. There may be a valuable weapon, food, or any other survival supplies. You may only take the supplies that have your name on them. If you attempt to take another tribute's pack, your scent will immediately be given to a pack of mutts that will attack you and only you in a matter of seconds. As soon as all supplies are collected, you may begin killing each other, but no sooner. Again, may the odds be ever in your favor!"_

I frown to myself. So technically, the Gamemakers are giving us the weapons that will make us nearly invincible in this arena.

Works for me.

* * *

><p><strong>David J. Martin Wilson, 17. District 4<strong>

The Cornucopia and its riches glimmer in the warm sunlight. I can see a pair of tridents propped up against a rock, their bluish metal shimmering with the sun's glare. I reach up and finger the round silver locket that lies against my collarbone. As I look around myself, I see that the other tributes are also touching their tokens for what may be the last time.

The booming voice of Claudius Templesmith resounds through the arena, echoing off the shining metal walls of the arena that surround us almost claustrophobically.

"_Ten…_"

* * *

><p><strong>Fergus McKlain, 12. District 10<strong>

"_Nine..."_

It's beginning. I grip the worn surface of the picture of my friends and me, rubbing the familiar faces one more time before tucking it under the high collar of my silver jumpsuit. I try to gauge where to run and meet up with my allies. My eyes are mapping out the scene, watching the instinctive movements of the other tributes. I see my small but lethal-looking spear lying just a few feet from me, just waiting. That's my goal; it's near a gap in the shimmering metal walls that surround us.

"_Eight…Seven..."_

* * *

><p><strong>Doe Jhonson, 14. District 10<strong>

_"Six...Five..."_

I scan the field of supplies that the Cornucopia offers. I spot a pale silver backpack that is propped up against the metal wall, and I see a black-hilted dagger sticking out of it. It camouflages so well that I know it was meant for my eyes only. I'm sure that if I can get that, and some kind of weapon, I'll be able to escape unharmed.

_"Four...Three...Two...One..."_

It goes off like a shot.

* * *

><p><strong>Sage Smith, 13. District 7<strong>

Immediately, I run to my small pile, where there's a pack of silver knives and a small bag of dried meat. The other tributes are rummaging through their own piles, pulling out weapons and preparing to fight for what they want.

Then, as one, we lunge.

Some people just sprint off into the openings in the metal walls, and one knocks into me, pushing me into a hole where I twist my ankle. I scream in pain and limp onwards, trying to reach for my knife, which I've dropped. I see Doe, the beautiful redhead from District 10 and one of my allies, get run through with the sword of Colakis Maphen.

Then I see the Career coming for me.

I scramble for my bright silver dagger, trying to ignore the throbbing in my twisted ankle. The girl, the Career from District 2, lunges for it also, already wielding a long silver knife with a serrated edge at the base. I try frantically to grab the dagger and scramble away before she reaches me, but it's too late.

I look up at the last minute, twisting my mouth to form an open scream of terror and defiance as the silver blade descends towards my chest, twisting and reflecting the hate-twisted face of the only girl in this arena who is younger than me. The knife plunges into my chest, drawing an agonized shriek from my throat.

The world is falling, twisting, turning to impossible colors before my eyes. The agony burns through me, ripping me to shreds as the Career girl removes the knife with a careless jerk of her wrist, tearing my flesh further. I lock my eyes on my district partner, James, who is sprinting towards me at a speed I didn't know existed. He falls to his knees in front of me, clutching a shining, double-bladed axe. I try to whisper to him, to tell him to finish it so that he can run away from here and save himself, but all that comes out is a pained, bloody gurgle.

However, it seems like he understood me. James brushes my hair from my eyes, and for a brief moment, all that I see and hear is James. He whispers, "It'll be quick."

I nod. _Thank you._

The sounds of the altered bloodbath return, building to an impossible crescendo in that heart-stopping moment as James raises the axe-

And then I hear no more.

* * *

><p><strong>Karin Litt, 16. District 3<strong>

Clutching my small pack and longbow in one of my bloodstained hands, I stagger quickly from the clangs and anguished screams of the bloodbath. My left hand clutches the slash along the upper part of my right arm, where Fergus, the small boy from 10, caught me with a quick blow from his massive spear. Seeing the entrance that is gaping in the shimmering metal walls that surround the Cornucopia, I slip through the dark maw quietly and quickly.

Immediately, the quality of sound in the arena changes. Every breath I take, every scream that enters the dim tunnel is accompanied by a metallic, haunting echo, as if I'm surrounded by a thousand tributes.

But I'm alone. I'm sure of that.

I walk further into the metal tunnel, marveling at how quickly the sounds of the bloodbath fade behind me. I enter a large, circular room with hundreds of similar tunnels twisting and spiraling off of it in all directions – the normal horizontal way, dropping down at steep angles, and climbing vertically with access by ladder. That's when I realize it.

I'm in a maze.

* * *

><p><strong>Just a short bloodbath chapter.<strong>

**Death Toll: 3/24**

**Trevor Gilman, Sage Smith, and Doe Jhonson. Rest in peace.**

**You can start giving me suggestions about what you want to happen in the Games now! I also take sponsor gift suggestions!**


	21. The Maze Part 1

**Hi, I've got news.**

**I've almost picked a victor. I'm kinda balancing between two of them, both of which are the characters that have really grown on me.**

**And yes, there are not all of the POVs yet. I'm doing it a bit at a time.**

* * *

><p><strong>Fergus McKlain, 12. District 10<strong>

I walk through the metal maze with Zale and Ranen. Our footsteps echo eerily around us, and Ranen is the only one not bothered by the sounds. He has a dark gray pack and carries a high-tech crossbow with a quiver of bolts slung across his back. I have a long blackwood spear and a small drawstring around my neck that holds some dried fruit and meat. Zale got almost nothing, only a small dagger that is barely longer than his hand but is sharper than anything we've ever seen. Together, we entered the maze with barely any scratches from the bloodbath. We've probably been walking for a good part of half a day. After all, there is no day or night in this dimly lit maze.

There is a scuffling behind us; Zale and I whirl to face the threat while Ranen takes the hint and turns around as well. All we see is a scurrying pack of small, wiry ferrets that hurry across the passageway behind us. One of them pauses and breaks away from the group, running towards us on clawed feet. It gets closer and rears up on its hind legs, inspecting us with curiously blood-red eyes.

"Guys," Zale mutters, "that is not a normal ferret."

The rodent lunges with a squeak, latching on to Ranen's leg with wickedly sharp claws. It begins to scramble up our ally's leg, but then Zale steps forward and stabs the thing through the heart, making it go limp and fall from Ranen's leg. Ranen picks it up by the tail, inspecting its streamlined black body and sharp fangs. "Mutt," he utters with a guttural growl. I have to admit, that kid is pretty scary for a deaf guy.

"It was probably trying to latch on and climb to your vital organs, where it'd attack," Zale murmured thoughfully. He took his knife and cut down the belly of the mutt. Bile and blood spilled out, but then Zale just reached his hand in and fished around until he pulled out a slab of pink stuff. "Bingo," he muttered. "I knew some good would come out of helping the butcher on the weekends." He held up the meat. "The mutts are food!" he cried happily. "We just need to cook 'em!"

"Need fire," Ranen contradicted in that slow, deliberate voice of his. "No fire here."

I look around us in confusion. He's right; the maze is nothing but barren metal. "Well, there's got to be some sort of tinder around here somewhere," I conclude. "This can't be all that there is to the arena." I heft my spear and walk off, heading forwards confiedently. I look back and see the Ranen and Zale are standing, looking at the maimed ferret body on the metal ground. "Are you coming?" I demand.

They start walking.

And so begins the trek again.

* * *

><p><strong>Mallory Jewel, 12. District 2<strong>

That girl was just another tally. Soon enough, I'll add the rest of the tributes to my list.

For now, I'll wait.

Colakis is sitting against one of the metal walls, cleaning the blade of his brand new sword. Zella Dempsey's dark hair falls over her blue eyes as she looks over her arsenal of assorted throwing weapons, most of which are knives. The other five are things that she calls throwing stars. They look pretty deadly, and for that I'm glad. David is sleeping, leaning against the metal walls with his mouth set in a grim line. His hand still clutches the tridents that he was given.

"What are you looking at?" Rosita snaps when she meets my gaze. She fingers the pouch at her waist, which I know is filled with ingredients and vials of deadly poison. She's the assassin of our group, and I see that Colakis is looking at her out of the corner of his eye every once in a while.

I shrug at Rosita. "Nothing," I reply flippantly, using my fingernail to clean a flake of dried blood off of my dagger. It reminds me of-

No. Don't think about it.

She was just another tally mark.

Don't think about it, or you'll be one too.

* * *

><p><strong>Tarragon Tempest, 15. District 11<strong>

"Tarragon, your weapon?" Scout asks.

I hold up the coiled length of beige rope in my dark hands. "Whip, fully laced with poison. It seems a bit like overkill, don't you think?" When nobody answers, I continue the survey. "Scout and Guire, you have...?"

"Axes," they chime in unison, holding up Erik's battleaxe and Scout's throwing axe.

Aramind raises his two pickaxes in his hands. "And I have mine," he tells me with a wink.

That boy is creepy. I know that Scout and Erik hate him too. Maybe...just maybe...

This is the Hunger Games, of course. It'll look like a tragic accident if Aramind stumbles into the path of Colakis Maphen.

* * *

><p><strong>Ranen Hollock, 12. District 8<strong>

Where's Zale?


	22. The Maze Part 2

**Hi, I've got news.**

**I've almost picked a victor. I'm kinda balancing between two of them, both of which are the characters that have really grown on me.**

**And yes, there are not all of the POVs. I'm doing it a bit at a time.**

* * *

><p><strong>Kia Beckford, 16. District 11<strong>

"And then there were two," Haley jokes weakly, fiddling with the waterproof bag of provisions that we have. It also has all of Sage's and Doe's things in it. There's Sage's silver knives and dried meat, and Doe's gray backpack with the serrated black-hilted dagger that she never got to use.

I look over at my only ally that survived the bloodbath. Already, her hair is tangled and she hunches her shoulders against the light weight of the bow and arrows strapped to her back. I have throwing knives, which seem to be common in the arena. I'm well-matched.

My reflection in the warped metal walls shows a shell-shocked girl with haunted eyes. Maybe it's accurate; I'll never know.

I just hope I survive.

* * *

><p><strong>Xienna Rider, 15. District 5<strong>

Trevor's steel trident is clutched in my hands, along with my throwing knives and dagger. I feel a twang of regret for all of the times that Trevor could have used this weapon, but now can't. His life, cut short by one of us.

I look over at Allegra, whose hard green eyes bore into my own as she grooms the fletching on the arrows that she got as her weapon. Her sturdy bronze longbow rests at her feet, strung with a hair-thin string that is apparently stronger than steel.

Jaylin and Kylar are whispering urgently to each other, with Kylar brandishing his night-vision goggles and axe in urgency. Jayling replies just as urgently, showing him the long, thin sword that she holds in her hands.

I roll my eyes. Romances can never last in the Games. I remember seeing two eighteen-year-olds fall for each other several years ago. It was touching at first, seeing how they fended for each other and how the guy protected the girl at all costs.

But then, of course, they ended up in the final two.

After all of his efforts, the girl killed him with a stab in the back.

Both metaphorically and literally, of course.

* * *

><p><strong>Zale Tatum, 13. District 9<strong>

I can't feel my toes.

It's not that I'm cold; it's far from that. All I know is that I'm stretched out on cold metal, my bare skin touching the surface with prickles of discomfort. "Stop..." I protest feebly, but all I get in return is the prick of a needle in my flesh as it weaves in and out of the back of my neck, pulling something through my skin. Many weaving needles join the first, sewing something into my flesh that I cannot explain. I try to scream at times, but I think that whatever I feel coursing through my veins has sedated me...for now.

Gentle fingers comb through my hair, putting some cold, wet substance in it that tickles my scalp. The fingers are replaced with a comb that pulls through my hair, straightening the pale brown curls like magic. A burst of air fluffs at my head, drying the newly straightened hair on my head...and the hair on...my neck?...My back?

What is this?

And wasn't I just in the arena?

I cringe as there is a sharp pressure at my fingernails, pressing and pulling the nails into something else. I curl my fingers, feeling my nails scratching at the metal. The screeching fills my ears with the high whine. The invasive hands flip me over, forcing me to lie on my back as my protesting mouth is pried open. A cold instrument is thrust in above my tongue, clicking and clattering against my teeth. The taste of some chemical trickles towards the back of my throat, making me gag as the tools get to work on my top canine teeth. I open my eyes, which I didn't realize that I'd screwed shut. I see a screen that projects the hands' progress on my mouth. My eyes widen as I see that the hands are cementing steel canines over my real ones. These are longer, pretty much fangs.

The hands go on to re-cap all of my teeth, creating fangs with the canines and just making sharp incisors and molars with the others.

The offending fingers finally remove themselves, gently letting my mouth close. I run my tongue over the cold steel tips of my teeth, trying to acclimate myself with the alien surface that holds my jaw slightly ajar. I look up at the screens again; the hands are working at my hands again.

That needle is back!

Just let it end...

I can't feel anything, which makes it all the worse.

Kia, what is this? Ranen? Fergus?

Is anyone there?

The hands- they transform me!

My head is filled...filled with images, commnds.

Kill?

Of course.

But...I don't want to! Get out of my head! I am no animal!

I am Zale Tatum. I'm thirteen years old. I am in love with the most beautiful girl.

I cannot kill! I will not!

What is this that makes me an animal, a monster?

Monster?

MONSTER?

No. No no no no no.

Make it stop. Anything to stop this changing in my head that makes me less like myself with every flash of the needle, with every breath that brings oxygen to the brain that changes me, _mutates_ me.

Kill?

Yes!

No!

Just...anything, ANYONE, make it stop!

Make me myself again, please!

I'm begging!

I'll do anything, just MAKE IT END!


	23. The Maze Part 3The Desert Part 1

**I know. This is a really late update. You must have given up hope. And I feel terrible about that. But I've been a bit distracted with the end of school, spring break, and my dad getting really sick and being in the hospital for the entirety of May. So I'll try to be more diligent now that school's over.**

* * *

><p><strong>Zella<strong> **Dempsey, 18. District 1**

"What's that sound?" I ask warily, drawing one of my throwing stars from the belt on my tight silver jumpsuit. Mallory, Colakis, and Rosita look up in alarm, and David jerks out of sleep quickly, groggily stumbling to his feet and hefting his trident.

My ears twitch as they pick up the sound of scrabbling feet and the click of claws. I toss my head to get my hair out of my eyes and roll my shoulders to stretch out the elastic fabric of my dark silver jumpsuit. I look to my left; Colakis has drawn his sword and has his booted feet planted shoulder width apart. His eyes are searching the near darkness anxiously. Rosita has gotten a spritzer bottle full of some corrosive poison that I don't want to be on the recieving end of.

David suddenly whips around and points to the ground behind us. "There," he croaks, his voice cracking in his fear.

"What the hell is that?" Colakis growls in shock.

"Not that," I whisper in terror, looking at our first enemy in the tunnels. "_Them_."

Hundreds of malicious red eyes blink up at us hatefully.

* * *

><p><strong>Haley Francis Donner, 15. District 6<strong>

"Hey, Kia," I call down to my ally. I look down and see my short-haired friend peering up at me to where I perch in what is surely the most valuable vantage point in this maze. It's a tube leading up to a platform where I can see _above_ the maze, and I can see where the maze ends. It ends!

"What do you see?" she asks curiously.

"Mountains!" I scream. "I see mountains and a desert! And there's a waterfall in the mountains!"

Kia's joy is echoed by mine as we scream wordlessly in joy.

We aren't going to be stuck in this insanity trap!

* * *

><p><strong>David J. Martin Wilson, 17. District 4<strong>

I walk warily through the tunnels with Mallory, Colakis, Zella, and Rosita. We each have our packs on our shoulders, and our weapons are stained with dried blood from the brief battle with the ferret mutts. Mallory is limping a bit; she tripped on a vine when a ferret leaped on her and tried to latch on, and now her ankle is twisted. It looks pretty painful, but at least it gives me an advantage.

Suddenly, a faint sound echoes in the metal walls. We all freeze, holding our weapons aloft as we move into a circle to defend from all directions.

"It sounds like growling," Rosita whispers fearfully. "More mutts?"

"I hope not," I reply under my breath. "You were useless."

"Come again?" Rosita snaps, turning her head to glare at me.

"Nothing," I grin at her quickly. _I hope you die a painful death_, I mutter to her in my head.

Colakis looks around from my other side, his ears twitching as he tries to pinpoint the noise. "It's coming from that way," he deduces. "Let's run, throw 'em off our tail."

And we begin to run.

* * *

><p><strong>Mallory Jewel, 12. District 2<strong>

The growling amplifies, growing louder and rattling in my breastbone as we race through the impossible tunnels. I hear a hurried, shuffling footstep; a scratch of claws clipping metal. David grabs my hand and pulls me along, trying to remove the weight from my twisted, swollen ankle. I cry out in pain, and David stops our group for a moment, stooping down to pick me up, carrying me in his arms as the Careers pick up speed again.

Colakis looks back at us and snarls, "Come on!" He hefts his sword and shifts his backpack on his muscular shoulders. We turn one corner…two…three…

There's an exit! There's a rectangle of light, blinking with brightness that blinds us after so long in the dim tunnels of the maze.

"We're almost there!" Rosita shrieks, putting on a burst of speed and sprinting towards the tunnel exit.

And suddenly she screams.

A black silhouette is framed in the light, blocking out the rays and casting a shadow of claws and fur and muscle. We all stop short and draw our weapons, just yards from that ominous figure.

"You shouldn't have come this way," comes the sudden voice from the figure. It's shockingly familiar, laced with traces of a hoarse, raspy growl. "Turn back."

Colakis steps forward, forcing the figure backwards as we all advance. We are all thrown into the light and exit the tunnel, and I briefly tear my eyes away from the thing facing us to see that we are in the middle of a desert made of silver and black stones and sand.

But then I look back, turning my head in David's grasp, and I see that it's Zale Tatum.

"You!" I gasp.

He narrows his eyes. "Me."

But not really. His eyes, devoid of glasses, are now an electric, piercing green, and his pupils are a feline oval shape. He still wears a collar of the material that our jumpsuits are made of, and he has the pants of the outfit too. But the rest of him is changed. His once curly hair is straight and hangs ragged down across his eyes, trailing down his back in a streak of fur that leads to a thin, doglike tail that hangs low between his legs, which end in doglike, hair-covered feet-paws that end in long talons. His hands hang loosely at his sides, showing the dark claws that curl from the fingertips there.

"How?" Colakis asks.

"The Gamemakers," Zale replies, suddenly moving to the side, keeping his face to us as he circles around to block our only escape, the tunnel. "I told you, you should have turned back." As he speaks, his teeth show, glinting with steel. "Now I have to do my duty."

"And what's that?" David asks, setting me down next to Zella, who puts her arm around me to support my weight. David advances towards this new Zale, brandishing his trident.

Zale grins wickedly, all traces of humanity gone from his eyes for now. "Kill." And then he lunges at David in an inhuman leap, bowling the tribute over and landing on his chest on all fours, like an animal. David yells in frustration and stabs with his trident, catching the prongs in Zale's arm and pushing him off. As Zale howls in pain, David stands and yanks the trident out, tearing the skin of Zale's arm.

The muttation that used to be a tribute drops the the ground and tumble rolls, coming up in a leap as he slashes his claws across David's throat, pushing him to the ground. This time, all David manages is a bloody gurgle. He coughs, and blood flies into the air, landing on his pale face.

I whimper in fear.

Zale then dives down and, with his steel teeth, rips at the throat of David, starting to eat our ally.

Colakis suddenly draws back and whispers, "Let's run for it."

"But David...!" I protest.

"He's dead," Colakis says bluntly. "We'd better leave while that thing is distracted."

And then he trots off into the desert, leaving David's body to Zale's whims.

And we follow, with me limping my way along, trying not to think about the blood that is spattered on my jumpsuit.


	24. The Maze Part 4 The Mountain Part 1

**Sorry that I took so long...grr I feel like I'm letting you guys down!**

* * *

><p><strong>Jaylin Brooke Adams, 16. District 9<strong>

Xienna's dark, curly hair tumbles around her shoulders as she holds her dagger to Allegra's throat. I sit to the side, alone while Kylar is out scouting our route forward in the maze.

"You listen to me," Xienna hisses. "You do not have any sort of immunity in this arena. In fact, you have exactly the opposite. I don't know what the hell makes you think you have the right to just throw your weight around and then try to _kill me in my sleep_!"

Allegra sneers, her green eyes cold as ice. "Do you honestly think that I care?"

Xienna removes her dagger and shoves the dark-haired girl to the side, towards Kylar who has just returned from scouting. "Kylar, send her off. She's going on her own now."

Kylar shrugs and picks up his axe, holding it to the back of Allegra's neck as he allows the girl to pick up her weapons and then he pushes her out of our area of the tunnel, their footsteps fading into the darkness.

"This sucks," Xienna whispers, leaning against the wall of the maze and sliding down to a sitting position.

I go over and sit next to her. "This is the Hunger Games."

* * *

><p><strong>Karin Litt, 16. District 3<strong>

I consider myself lucky.

I saw the attack from above, and I saw the blood and what Zale Tatum had become.

I saw it from the mountain above the desert.

It hadn't taken me that long to get out of the maze. I just took the most unlikely, terrifying route, which consisted of walking along steel beams above a pit of howling mutts and climbing up a vertical maze shaft to emerge in a rocky tunnel in the middle of the mountain.

My stomach doesn't even have the strength to growl. I double over on the rock of the mountain, clutching my abdomen. The Gamemakers didn't think to give me a supply of food in my pile at the bloodbath, and I'm suffering for it.

But at least I haven't been found yet.

A snarl shocks me off my knees and onto my feet. I quickly notch an arrow and swivel around, searching for the source of the noise.

The massive gray leopard facing me licks its lips, baring massive white fangs. Its hungry gray eyes glint hungrily.

I draw back the arrow-

-and the leopard leaps, claws outstretched.

It tackles me down before I can let my weapon fly, knocking me to the ground. Its claws rake down my right arm, and I scream, letting go of the arrow that hung in the now-slack bowstring. As I roll over onto my left side to evade the descending fangs, I shrug my bow up ove my arm so that it hangs off my shoulder.

The leopard snarls again and leaps after me, its fangs descending to snap just above my face. My left hand shoots up to punch the windpipe of the predator, instead striking metal. When I do, there's a crackling noise, and as one of the leopard's fangs slices down my forehead, blinding my eye with blood, my mother's voice peals from the device on the leopard's neck.

_"Karin! No! Oh, god, my Karin!"_

I gasp, partly in agony as a hind claw gashes my leg, and partly as I realize that it's a live transmission of my mother's voice as she watches me get mauled by a leopard.

The feline beast, as it struggles to injure me, ends up pushing me to the edge of the cliff. My head is hanging off the edge, making me dangerously dizzy as blood flows to my head. The leopard's slobbering jaws are inches from my face, and I see the blood from my face dripping off the one canine that'd cut me.

_"Oh, hold on, Karin! Stay strong for me, baby!"_

I clench my fists in agony and feel the fletching of my discarded arrow tickling my fingers. I stretch oh-so-slowly, hoping that my mother's screams will distract my foe just long enough to-

Got it!

I raise my torn arm in a deadly arc, plunging the arrowhead into the throat of the snarling beast.

It screeches in an unearthly scream of agony, and hot, nearly corrosive blood spatters my face. I grin. I've won.

And then the leopard collapses.

And, together, we tumble into the abyss.

* * *

><p><strong>Allegra Mariel, 17. District 12<strong>

"Don't do this," I warn Kylar.

He does nothing; just scowls and pushes me forward. "You tried to kill others in our alliance. That won't stand." He stops next to a clump of vines and sits me down in the midst of them. "I found these when I was scouting," he tells me with a grin. "They're triggered by noise." Kylar steps back and picks up two scraps of metal from the floor of the maze. "See you around, Allegra."

He raises his arms and smashes the metal together with a resounding clang.

The vines twitch and writhe around me, as if they're waking up. I snarl at Kylar, "You're going to regret this."

"Don't think so, sweetheart." Kylar smirks, and though I've definitely seen him as a sweet and kind boy, which I'm sure he is, now he's just a predator. His mismatched eyes glint as he whistles and a growling starts up. "I struck a deal with a boy I met in training," he tells me. "He owed me a solid." He grins, salutes, and turns to leave.

By now, the vines are drawing me in by my arms, and I scream at the retreating back. "I HATE YOU!" I screech. "Don't do this!"

Kylar just keeps walking, raising his hand in a salute over his shoulder.

The growling grows louder.

And Zale Tatum turns a corner, his mouth stained with dried blood and lips pulled back in a hungry snarl.

I close my eyes.

So this is death.

I look up at the predator with pride. "Come and get me," I challenge him.

He grins.

He lunges.

I scream.

The world goes black.

* * *

><p><strong>Zale Tatum, 13. District 7<strong>

_Run. Run run run run run. Kill. Kill. Kill them all._

It's all I can do to not throw back my head and howl at the moon.

Every once in a while, I'll turn a corner on the mountain or in the tunnels and I'll catch sight of a wolf which surely has to be a muttation. Like me. We'll nod and go our separate ways, with me loping along on my altered limbs like some sort of four-legged creature.

But, thankfully, I've seen no tributes other than the Careers, Kylar, and that girl I killed.

Even now, my skin is itching with the burning guilt of it all. I killed. I killed another human being with my bare hands...claws. I tore them to shreds!

Dismemberment is my worst fear. And I just went and did exactly what I was scared of. I suppose that's what happens when you get mutated and altered by the people of the Capitol.

And I'm not even dead yet! They just plucked me out of the arena and got to work on me. While I was still alive.

At least I can still walk on two legs as well as four. At least I have the same general facial structure. I'm still me, just altered beyond belief. I'm still human.

But I killed.

And I regret it.

But what makes me sick is that I crave to do it again.


	25. Author's Note

Hello, guys. I know, it's been months, and you've probably given up on this story. And for that, I am so sorry. But I WILL be trying to continue this when I can, but juggling a full schedule of honors classes, art classes, and forensics competitions is really hard. But for now, I'd just like to tell you that I am most definitely on hiatus for a while.


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